


I LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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READINGS IN POETRY: 



A SELECTION FROM THE 



BEST ENGLISH POETS, 

FROM 

SPENSER TO THE PRESENT TIMES ; 



SPECIMENS OF SEVERAL AMERICAN POETS 

OF DESERVED REPUTATION. 

TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 

A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE HISTORY OF 

ENGLISH POETRY, 






PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF 




THE COMMITTEE M jO^flA APPOINTED BY THE 

OF M ^flnO 1| SOCIETY FOR 

GENERAL LITERATURE i LT 1 |i[ 1 PROMOTING CHRISTIAN 

AND EDUCATION, M WsMJjiM B KNOWLEDGE,. 






LONDON : J — a 

JOHN W. PARKER, WEST STRAND. 



MDCCCXXXIII. 



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CONTENTS. 



Page 

Preface 1 

Brief Survey of the History of English Poetry . . 3 

English Versification 15 

On Reading Poetry ........ 22 

On the different Species of Poetry . . . .25 

ENGLISH POETS. 

Spenser, Edmund, (born about 1553, died 1599) . . 41 
The Seasons, 41. 

Davies, Sir John, (born 1570, died 1626) ... 44 

The Immortality of the Soul, 44. 

Fletcher, Phineas, (died 1650) 46 

Intellect, The Prince of the Purple Island, 46 The 

Happiness of a Rural Life, 48. 

Fletcher, Giles .50 

The Morning of the Resurrection, 50. 

Habington, William, (born 1605, died 1654) . . 54 

The Brief Triumph of the Wicked, 54 Time, 55. 

Herrick, Robert .57 

To Blossoms, 57 To Daffodils, 58. 

Milton, John, (born 1608, died 1674) . . . . 58 

The Garden of Eden, 59 The Preparations for the Battle 

of the Angels, 61 Eve's Lament on her Expulsion from 

Paradise, 62-— — 'The Subsiding of the Waters of the Deluge, 
62 Samson's Lament for the Loss of his Sight, 63 De- 
scription of a Lady Singing, 65 Description of a Storm, 66. 

Dry den, John, (born 1631, died 1700) . . . .67 
David's Friends, 67 A Dream, 71 Veni Creator, 73. 

Parnell, Thomas, (born 1679, died 1717) ... 75 
The Hermit, 75 A Fairy Tale, 82. 



IV CONTENTS. 

Page 

Prior, Matthew, (born 1664, died 1721) , . . .89 
Charity, 89 Solomon's Reflections on Human Life, 91. 

Addison, Joseph, (horn 1672, died 1719) ... 93 

Ode on the Creation, 94 Gratitude to God, 94 Con- 
fidence in God, 96 Paraphrase on Psalm XXIII. 98 

Divine Mercy to the Penitent, 98. 

Pope, Alexander, (born 1688, died 1744) . . . 99 

The Messiah, 100 The Dying Christian to his Soul, 103. 

Gay, John, (born 1688, died 1732) . . . . 104 

The Pin and the Needle, 104 The Butterfly and the 

Snail, 105 The Turkey and the Ant, 107. 

Tickell, Thomas, (born 1686, died 1740) . . .108 

To the Earl of Warwick, on the Death of Mr. Addison, 108. 

Blair, Robert, (born 1699, died 1746) . . . . 112 

The Grave, 112 Death, 114 The Entrance of Death 

into the World, 116. 

Thomson, James, (bom 1700, died 1748) . . .118 

Showers in Spring, 118 A Tropical Storm, 120 Mists 

in Autumn, 123 Snow, 123 The Castle of Indolence, 126. 

Young, Edward, (born 1681, died 1765) ... 131 
God's Address to Job, 131- The Horse, 133 The Behe- 
moth and Leviathan, 134 Address to the Deity, 137. 

Akenside, Mark, (born 1721, died 1770) . . . '141 

The Plight of Imagination, 141 Moral Beauty, 142— 

Taste, 144. 

Gray, Thomas, (born 1716, died 1771) ... . 146 
The Progress of Poesy, 146 On Education, 151. 

Goldsmith, Oliver, (born 1731, died 1774) . . .154 
The Traveller, 154. 

Brooke, Henry, (bom 1706, died 1783) . . . 157 
Universal Beauty, 157. 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel, (born 1709, died 1784) . .159 

The Vanity of Human Wishes, 159. 



CONTENTS. V 

Page 

Warton, Thomas, (bom 1728, died 1790) . . . 162 
Ode, The Crusade, 162. 

Cowper, William, (born 1731, died 1800) . . .165 
The Winter Evening, 165 Praise of the Country, 168. 

Burns, Robert, (born 1759, died 1796) . . . 172 

The Cotter's Saturday Night, 173 Lament for James, Earl 

of Glencairn, 179. 

Beattie, Dr. James, (born 1735, died 1803) . ... . 182 
A Poet's Childhood, 182 The Sage, 184. 

Crabbe, George, (born 1754, died 1832) ... 187 
An English Peasant, 187 The Patronized Boy, 189. 

Southey, Robert 195 

The Widowed Mother, 195 The Voyage, 197 Mount 

Meru, 201 The Dog, 204 The Vale of Covadonga, 205. 

Coleridge, S. T 208 

Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouny, 208 

Tell's Birth-place, 210 Night, 211 The Dissolution of 

Friendship, 212. 

Wordsworth, William . . . .. . .213 

Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots, 213 Obligations of 

Civil to Religious Liberty, 215 Fidelity, 216 Ruth, 218 

To the Daisy, 225 Elegiac Stanzas, 228. 

Rogers, Samuel 229 

The Pleasures of Memory, 229 Human Life, 231 To 

the Butterfly, 232 -Italy, 233 The Sailor, 234 On a 

Tear, 235. 

Campbell, Thomas . . . . . . .236 

The Downfall of Poland, 236 Imagination, Hope, 238 

The Last Man, 240 To the Rainbow, 243 Hohen- 

linden, 245. 

Montgomery, James . . . . . . . 246 

The Wanderer's Return, 246 Greenland, 249 The 

Pelican Island, 251 The Common Lot, 253- The Cast- 
away Ship, 254- A Mother's Love, 257 — -The Time-piece>£> 

259. V — 

White, Henry Kirke, (born 1785, died 1806) . . .261 
A Hymn for Family Worship, 261 The Christiad (con- 
cluding stanzas), 262 The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song, 263 

Elegy on the Death of Mr. Gill, 265 The Star of 

Bethlehem, 266. 



VI CONTENTS. 

Page 

Scott, Sir Walter, (bornJi771, died 1832) . . . 267 

Pitt, Nelson, Fox i j67^ — Coronach, 271 Lament, 271 

Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman, 272 The Voyage 

through the Western Isles, 273 On the Massacre of Glencoe, 

276 The Aged Minstrel, 277 Melrose Abbey, 278 

Battle of Beal'an Duine, 279 Death of De Boune, 283. 

Croly, George, LL.D 285 

The Entry into Jerusalem, 285 The Dead Sea, 286 

Bellator Moriens, 287 The Retreat of the French Army 

from Moscow, 288 Czerni George, 290 The Alhambra, 

295 Jacob's Dream, 295. 

Milman, Henry Hart 297 

Hymn of the Captive Jews (from Belshazzar), 297 The 

Summons of the Destroying Angel to the City of Babylon, 299 
The Fall of Jerusalem, Hymn, 300. 

Wilson, John 302 

The Sea by Moonlight (from the Isle of Palms), 302 The 

Ship, 304 The Shipwreck, 306. 

Heber, Reginald, (born 1783, died 1826) . . . 308 

Palestine, 308 The Druses, 309 The Crusade, 310 

Hymn, Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity, 311, 

Hemans, Felicia . 312 

The Trumpet, 312 -Ivan the Czar, 313 The Siege of 

Valencia, 316— — Casabianca, 317 The Cid's Funeral Pro- 
cession, 318. 

Landon, Miss 322 

Crescentius, 322. 

Barton, Bernard 323 

The Solitary Tomb, 323 A Poet's Noblest Theme, 325 

Howitt, William and Mary 328 

The Conqueror, 328 Telle est la Vie, 330. 

Dale, Thomas . . 332 

The Widow of Nain, 332 The Female Convict to her 

Infant, 334 Funeral Dirge (from the Widow of Nain), 335. 

Pollok, Robert, (born 1799, died 1827) ... 336 

The Course of Time, 336 True Liberty, 337 The Death 

of the Young Mother, 338. 

Watts, Alaric A 340 

Evening, A Sketch, 340 JEtna, A Sketch, 341 An 

Epicedium, 343. 



CONTENTS. Vll 

Page 

Moultrie, Rev. J. ....... 344 

My Brother's Grave, 344. 

Hervey,T.K 350 

My Sister's Grave, 350 The Convict Ship, 352. 

Moir,D. M. . 353 

_ Melancholy, 353. 

Bowles, Rev. W. L. 355 

Abba Thule, 355 Sun-dial in a Church-yard, 357 The 

Greenwich Pensioners, 358. 

Keats, John, (born 1796, died 1821) .... 360 
Ode to a Nightingale, 360 Robin Hood, 362. 

Hogg, James ..... . • 364 

Elegy, 364 The Fate of Macgregor, 366. 



AMERICAN POETS. 



Paulding, James K. 371 

The Backwoodsman, 371. 

Sigourney, Lydia H 373 

The Coral Insect, 373 Death of an Infant, 374. 

Sands, Robert C. . . . . . . . 375 

Yamoyden, 375. 

Pierpont, John . 376 

The Pilgrim Fathers, 376 Napoleon at Rest, 377. 

Wilcox, Carlos, (died 1827) 379 

Active Christian Benevolence the Source of Sublime and 
lasting Happiness, 379 Vernal Melody in the Forest, 381. 

Dana, Richard H. 382 

Immortality, 382 The Buccaneer, 384. 

Percival, James G r 385 

The Coral Grove, 385 To the Eagle, 386. 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

Page 

Neal, John 389 

Day-break, 389. 

Bryant, William Cullen . , . , . . 391 

The Murdered Traveller, 391 Song of the Stars, 392- — 

The Death of the Flowers, 394. 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene 395 

Marco Bozzaris, 395 Twilight, 397. 

Sprague, Charles 398 

The Winged Worshippers, 398 Art, 400. 

Brainard, John G. C, (born 1796, died 1828) . . 401 

The Deep, 401 The Falls of Niagara, 402 Departure 

of the Pioneer, 403. 

Dawes, Rufus 404 

The Spirit of Beauty, 404. 

Longfellow, W. H 406 

Burial of the Minnisink, 406 Hymn of the Moravian 

Nuns, at the Consecration of Pulaski's Banner, 407. 

Willis, Nathaniel P 409 

The Soldier's Widow, 409 The Boy, 410. 

Finn, Henry J. . . . . 412 

The Funeral at Sea, 412. 

Mellen, Grenville 413 

The Air Voyage, a Vision, 413. 

Whittier, James G. 415 

From The Minstrel Girl, 415. 

Peabody, William B. 416 

The Autumn Evening, 416. 

Eckhard, F. S 417 

The Ruined City, 417. 



PREFACE. 



In making these selections from, the works of our best 
English poets, the Editor has endeavoured to combine 
several important objects. He has laboured to choose 
such extracts as convey some useful and moral lesson, 
and, at the same time, best illustrate the style of the 
respective writers. He has also been guided in his choice 
by an anxiety to insert nothing that was beyond the 
level of a youthful capacity ; and, as it was manifestly 
impossible to find such in every poet's works, he has 
added notes, explaining obsolete words, and allusions to 
historical or mythological circumstances, not within the 
range of a school-boy's reading. 

The extracts are arranged in chronological order, and 
may, therefore, serve to illustrate the progress both of 
our language and literature. To the collection are pre- 
fixed literary notices of the different writers : they are 
necessarily brief, but they will, perhaps, have the effect 



ii PREFACE. 

of stimulating the student to the exercise of his own 
taste and his own judgment. 

The preliminary pieces prefixed to the extracts will be 
found to contain more information respecting the nature 
of English poetry than is usually contained in similar 
volumes. The writer has been as simple and brief as 
he could ; for his object is not to display multifarious 
learning, but to simplify and condense the elements of 
knowledge. 



BRIEF SURVEY OF THE HISTORY 



OF 



ENGLISH POETRY. 



English Poetry occupies a proud station in the litera- 
ture of Modern Europe : yielding to none in sublimity, 
extent, and variety, it surpasses all in the highest species 
of poetry, — that which is ennobled by the spirit of piety, 
and derives its inspiration, not from fabled fountains, 
but from the " wells of water springing up to everlasting 
life." Truly ungrateful are the British bards, that forget 
their obligation to the Bible : from its sacred pages were 
derived the first impulses of English genius ; our litera- 
ture has grown with pure religion, shared in its tempo- 
rary obscurations, and participated in all its triumphs. 
From the days of the Saxon Alfred, to the present hour, 
there has not been a period remarkable for the brilliancy 
of its literary triumphs, that was not also distinguished 
by zeal in the diffusion of religious truth ; and the epochs 
marked by tameness and dulness in the annals of our 
literature, were also those when the religious historian 
could complain, that " the love of many had waxed cold." 
Of the literature of our Saxon ancestors too little is 
generally known. Being hopelessly ignorant of their 
metrical laws, and the quantity of their syllables, we 
cannot derive from the songs of the ancient bards all 

a 2 '**V 



4 BRIEF SURVEY OF THE 

the pleasure that they afforded their contemporaries ; but 
we can trace in them that stubborn strength of character 
and manly independence, which soon roused the jealous 
vengeance of the Roman pontiff, and induced him not 
merely to sanction, but direct, the invasion of the Nor- 
man William. The Norman Conquest established the 
papal power in England, on a basis apparently perma- 
nent. The same policy that had induced the popes to 
aid the Franks in their exterminating war against the 
Gauls and the Goths, and the Saxons themselves against 
the Britons, led the reigning pontiff to become the chief 
ally of the Normans : ignorance was a better support 
for superstition than intelligence ; and, with prescience 
derived from experience, it was reasonably hoped that 
the gratitude of an unprincipled conqueror would yield 
more profit than the concession of just protection to an 
innocent people. Under the iron rule of the papacy, 
English religion became a mere repetition of idle forms, 
and English literature a tame rehearsal of monkish le- 
gends. But " the bread which was cast upon the waters 
was found again after many days •" the Saxon Gospels 
of Alfred were not forgotten, and a new benefactor again 
enabled the people to read, " in their own tongue, the 
wonderful works of God." Wickliffe, the great pre- 
cursor of the Reformation, published his translation of 
the New Testament, and a* dawn appeared, contending 
with the dark clouds that overspread the land. 

While Wickliffe was denouncing the corruptions of 
the papacy with unusual boldness, and contrasting its 
tyranny with the mild dominion of Him, " whose yoke 
is easy and burden light," Chaucer was raising the dig- 
nity of his native language, by practically showing its 



HISTORY OF ENGLISH POETRY. 5 

poetic capabilities. A convert to the faith of Wickliffe, 
he studied the Bible carefully, and learned from it the 
sublime moral principles, which his verses so studiously 
inculcate. Notwithstanding all the difficulties of obso- 
lete language, " the father of English poetry" is still 
read with pleasure. His works show that, to the genius 
of the poet, the learning of the scholar, and the wisdom 
of the philosopher, he had also added the piety of the 
Christian. 

Chaucer, however, was not the first of the English 
poets that exposed the usurpations of the papal see, the 
superstitions of the Romish church, and the profligacy 
of the monastic orders. The base bargain, by which 
England had been sacrificed to the Norman William and 
his ruthless followers, sunk deep into the memory of the 
Saxon population ; and the conduct of the clergy was 
far from being such as tended to efface these unfavour- 
able impressions. The author of Piers Plowman s Vision 
vigorously exposes the follies and crimes of the monks 
and friars, and prophesies that their conduct would 
inevitably produce the abolition of all monastic institu- 
tions. This remarkable prediction was uttered nearly 
two centuries before its fulfilment in the reign of Henry 
the Eighth. The popular ballads of the age preceding 
Chaucer, contain also strong evidence of the reluctance 
with which the English people bore the intolerant yoke 
of the papacy j and there is every reason to believe that 
the English Reformation would have dated from the age 
of Wickliffe and Chaucer, had not the inscrutable dispen- 
sations of Providence ordained that the Romish see should 
supply additional and irresistible evidence of its deadly 
enmity to civil liberty and religious toleration. 



6 BRIEF SURVEY OF THE 

Evil days followed : in the civil wars between the 
houses of York and Lancaster, the good seed which 
Wickliffe had sown was trodden down ; religion and 
literature were equally unheard amid the din of arms 
and the fierce contest of rival factions : it was not until 
after the accession of the house of Tudor, that a new 
attack was made upon the strong-holds of ignorance and 
superstition. During the reign of Henry the Eighth, the 
public mind was in a state of transition -, the signs of 
approaching improvement were manifest, but the strength 
of its adversaries was also fully developed, and there 
were moments when the event of the contest seemed 
doubtful. But the literary history of that reign proves 
that the awakening of the public mind to the important 
questions at issue between the reformers and the de- 
fenders of the papacy, had not been without its effect on 
English poetry ; the names of Wyatt, Surrey, and Sir 
Thomas More, will ever be remembered among those 
who laboured for the refinement and improvement of 
our language. 

In the disturbed reign of the amiable Edward, little 
was done for the advancement of literature, though 
much was planned and designed. His premature death, 
and the accession of his sanguinary sister, seemed to 
threaten the return of former darkness, and to menace 
destruction at once to pure religion and enlightened lite- 
rature. Fortunately, her reign was brief ; and the acces- 
sion of Elizabeth realized for England the truth of that 
beautiful Oriental proverb, " The darkest hour in the 
twenty-four is the hour before day." 

And never did a brighter day open for any country, 
than dawned for England, when the virgin- queen ascended 



HISTORY OF ENGLISH POETRY. 7 

its throne. It was the age of Shakspeare and of Spenser, 
and of countless other poets, who would, at any former 
period, have shone as lights, but who were now obscured 
by brighter luminaries. They were all the children of 
the Reformation ; they all breathe the vigour of minds 
freshly emancipated, anxious to prove, to the utmost ex- 
tent, their newly- acquired freedom ; sometimes, perhaps, 
hurried into extravagance by the stimulating effects of 
sudden liberty. Of Shakspeare, we will not speak j the 
plan of this little work excludes the dramatic writers 3 
and, in the brief space of an Introduction, it would be 
impossible to do justice to one whom Milton has happily 
termed " Fancy's child." 

Spenser, from whose writings our first extracts are 
taken, was the chief founder of what may be termed 
" the allegorical school of poetry" in England. Italy 
was the parent of allegorical poetry : precluded by the 
tyranny of the church from exposing abuses that out- 
raged reason and revolted taste, the Italian authors of 
the middle ages framed a figurative language, in which 
they could declare to the initiated their hatred of corrup- 
tion and their hopes of improvement. Dante, more 
especially, used a thick veil of allegory in announcing to 
the world its religious defections, and the means by which 
it might be regenerated. But the style which the Italians 
assumed from necessity, Spenser adopted from choice ; 
a circumstance deeply to be regretted, as his poem has 
been thus deprived of all the interest that results from 
sympathy. But, notwithstanding this great disadvan- 
tage, The Faerie Queen must ever be regarded as a poem 
of which a nation may be justly proud. 

The great success of Spenser encouraged a host of 



8 BRIEF SURVEY OF THE 

imitators ; but few of them merited or attained equal 
eminence. Of these imitations, The Purple Island was 
decidedly the best j but some of its allegories are so very 
extravagant, that the reader is deterred from the perusal 
of the entire poem. 

The reign of James the First was, on the whole, not 
unfavourable to literature j but, towards the close of it, 
the clouds were collecting round the political horizon, 
which burst with such a fearful tempest on the head of 
his unfortunate successor. The civil dissensions in the 
reign of Charles the First, directed the attention of the 
public mind from poetry to politics ; and when the 
Puritans triumphed, they, in the sternness of their fana- 
ticism, proscribed the graces of literature as criminal. 
Yet, even in this age, did religion again prove the best 
ally of genius ; and the Bible inspire the first of Eng- 
land's, perhaps, of the world's, poets. 

During the rancorous debates and fierce contests of 
the Civil War, men were in earnest j no matter to which 
side we assign the palm of the better cause, to neither 
can we refuse the praise of sincerity. The zeal of both 
factions may have been, indeed often was, mistaken -, 
but then it was certainly unfeigned. Milton was the 
poet of Christianity ; but, in a stricter sense, he was the 
poet of English Christianity ; not that system which 
consists in a dull, tedious round of superstitious ob- 
servances and idle forms; nor yet that which is com- 
posed of metaphysical dreams and scholastic jargon, 
and mocks reason by assuming its name ; nor the modern 
usage which derives from the Gospels a species of 
mathematical morality, addressing itself solely to the 
intellect, and passing over the affections and the passions, 



HISTORY OF ENGLISH POETRY. 9 

as if they formed no element of the human character ; 
but that which, thank God, is still the glory of our land, 
— that system which presumes not to investigate the 
divine attributes, but exhibits them in their effects upon 
the moral government of the universe. It is the true 
glory of English Christianity, that while it attempts not 
to penetrate the clouds and thick darkness that curtain 
the Infinite, it reverences, because it believes upon the 
righteousness and judgment which are the habitations of 
the eternal throne. It is, consequently, a system which 
equally addresses the intellect and the feelings, which 
hurries Reason to a right conclusion, by bringing Ima- 
gination to accelerate her speed, and which, by addressing 
all the component parts of the human character, makes 
all tend to one great point "of wonder, love, and praise." 
In no other part of the world, and rarely at any other 
time, was the influence of Christianity so powerfully felt, 
as in England during the Civil Wars 5 and from its 
humanizing effects, an Englishman may point with 
something like pride to that portion of his annals, from 
the parallel of which the natives of less favoured lands 
must recoil with horror. Compare the history of the 
English commonwealth with that of the French republic, 
and doubt, if you can, of the immense benefits that 
England has derived from the Bible. The age of Crom- 
well displayed much error, much fanaticism, much 
hypocrisy • but it also displayed much of that holy zeal 
which equally seeks the honour of God and the good of 
man. With this better spirit Milton was deeply imbued ; 
he was the poet of his country and his time. 

The restoration of Charles the Second effected a great, 
but by no means a beneficial change in the literature of 



10 BRIEF SURVEY OF THE 

England. The stern rule of the Puritans had produced 
a dangerous reaction, and Religion suffered for the errors 
of the fanaticism that had usurped her name. It was 
the misfortune of Dryden that he nourished in this 
unhappy period, and that he had not firmness to resist 
its seductions. He was fortunately educated in a more 
rigid school, and the religious instructions he had re- 
ceived were never wholly forgotten - 3 but guilty com- 
pliances with prevailing profligacy weakened his intel- 
lectual strength as much as it deteriorated his moral 
principle. While he defended the cause of good govern- 
ment, and directed his unrivalled satire against the weak 
Monmouth and the ambitious Shaftesbury, he shines as 
a poet ; but when, to please James the Second, he at- 
tempts to defend the absurdities of the Romish church, 
he proves a bad reasoner, and no very excellent versifier. 

Dryden may be considered as the founder of the 
artificial school of poetry, or the school which describes 
the mixed modes of social life, and inculcates precepts 
of action ; but Pope must indisputably be regarded as 
its head. Sound common- sense, refined taste, almost 
bordering on the fastidious, and exquisite elegance, are 
his characteristics. The subjects, however, of artificial 
life are limited ; the mere mechanical part of versification 
is no very difficult attainment, and the uniform harmony 
of the couplet becomes at last tiresome. On this ac- 
count, the followers and imitators of Pope have sunk 
into neglect, which they did not all merit ; and even his 
versification is found to cloy by its very sweetness, and 
to fatigue the ear by the unvarying monotony of its 
cadences. 

The poetry of Queen Anne's reign will not bear com- 



HISTORY OF ENGLISH POETRY. 1 1 

parison with that of Elizabeth j the truth is, that the 
compositions have too little in common to allow of a 
comparison being instituted. In prose, we should laugh 
at the person who dreamed of comparing John Locke 
and Sir Walter Scott as writers ; and metaphysical essays 
are scarcely more removed from novels, than is the 
poetry of nature from the poetry of manners. The elder 
writers belonged to a school, of which strength, vigorous 
conception, and daring execution, were the charac- 
teristics ; the wits of Queen Anne's reign were, on the 
contrary, distinguished for delicacy, elegance, and po- 
lished ease. To borrow an illustration from the art of 
sculpture, the one reminds us of the mighty Hercules ; 
the Other of the graceful Antihous. The disadvantage 
of the latter school was/ that its range was bounded ; 
that its style was more easily imitated ; and that from 
both causes its resources were sooner exhausted. 

In the interval between Pope and Cowper, few names 
can be found, likely to enjoy poetic immortality. The 
exquisitely simple beauty of Goldsmith will always be 
appreciated, and Gray's odes possess much of the severe 
majesty of the ancient models ; but Young, Thomson, 
and Akenside, severally labour under the charge of 
affectation j they aimed, rather to write eloquent lan- 
guage, than to form lofty conceptions. Hence their 
poems are frequently turgid and bombastic ; their expres- 
sions vague, obscure, and indefinite. English poetry 
seemed to be about sharing the fate of Latin poetry ; and 
the marks of its decline might be traced in the pages of 
Roman history. A change in its constitution, or its 
speedy extinction, was the only alternative, and once 
more the Bible afforded the means of renovation. 



12 BRIEF SURVEY OF THE 

Cowper was sincerely religious ■ he lived at a time 
when a lukewarm carelessness respecting the great con- 
cerns of eternity was too common a feeling, and when 
those who thought more seriously were deterred from 
speaking by a dread of ridicule. Too weak in spirit 
and constitution to fill the office of a rigid censor, he 
assumed an expostulating tone, and strove to lead, rather 
than to force amendment. He returned, also, to nature, 
loving more to dwell on the great world of God's crea- 
tion, than on any of the artificial modes of life that man 
has devised. In both respects, he was a reformer, and 
one of no ordinary powers ; he achieved a great revolu- 
tion in the national literature and national taste ; and he 
weakened, if he did not destroy, that habit of judging 
of excellence by conventional standards, which is, at 
once, the sign and the cause of a nation's literary decay. 

The last century was drawing to its close, when three 
young poets appeared, who completed the revolution 
that Cowper had commenced. They were unlike him ; 
they were unlike each other ; but they had, in common, 
an unaffected love of natural beauty • and, as a necessary 
consequence, a deep reverence for the older English 
bards, and a thorough contempt for all poetry that rested 
its claims on polished diction and smooth versification. 

Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey, were of the 
favoured class that are born poets ; they have lived to 
see themselves ranked among the standard writers of 
England, to know that their labours for the revival of 
British literature have been pre-eminently successful, 
and unfortunately, to find that those who have profited 
the most by their toils are the last to acknowledge the 
obligation. 



HISTORY OF ENGLISH POETRY. 13 

Scott and Wilson came to share in the victory that 
had been achieved] the first revived the romance of 
chivalry, and united modern graces to the wild achieve- 
ments of the middle ages. Wilson displayed a tender- 
ness and depth of feeling which instantly found its way 
to the reader's heart. 

Looking to the selections we have made from others, 
Rogers, Campbell, Milman, Croly, and Felicia Hemans, 
we cannot but see that religion has added no little, both 
of strength and beauty, to their verse. And it is con- 
soling to reflect that all who now can be ranked among 
the band of English poets, show in their works the con- 
viction that genius is most worthily employed in the 
service of its Almighty bestower, and that when so 
employed its triumphs are most brilliant and most 
delightful. 

But this consideration becomes much more interesting 
and important, when we look beyond the Atlantic. 
America must be regarded as the intellectual child of 
England, the inheritor of our language, our laws, and 
our national feelings. To us, such a country can never 
be an object of indifference, and there are few English- 
men that will read the specimens of American poetry in 
this volume without pride and pleasure. All the qualities 
that make our national literature valuable, the Americans 
have preserved, in substance if not in degree ; though 
beyond the Atlantic there are not, as yet, names that can 
compete with our poets of the first rank, there are many 
of a secondary order, approaching the first class more 
nearly than the third. Few poets ever described the 
charms of external nature with more simple and affecting 
beauty than Bryant. In no one is the Christian philo- 



14 HISTORY OF ENGLISH POETRY. 

sopher and Christian poet more completely united than in 
Dana. Pierpont's odes are full of fire and vigour. The 
others must speak for themselves. In all, however, will 
be found a spirit of unfeigned devotion to the Author of 
all good, and an acknowledgment thatthe poetic powers, 
like every other perfect gift, are derived from " the 
Father of lights, in whom is no variableness, neither 
shadow of turning." 

In this rapid survey, we have by no means intended to 
give a history of English poetry. Our object has been 
simply to show that in England, more perhaps than in 
any other country, it has been proved that the national 
happiness and the national literary glories have ever been 
connected with its zeal for religion. And that it is as 
true in a literary, as it is in a moral sense, that " Righ- 
teousness exalteth a nation, but sin is the ruin of a 
people." 



15 



ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. 



A verse or line of poetry is divided into feet, and each 
foot consists of two or more syllables. The ancient lan- 
guages rested their versification on the quantity, that is 
the length or shortness of the syllables ; in the English, 
and in most modern languages, the melody of the verse 
depends upon the accent, that is, the stress, laid upon 
each syllable in pronunciation. The long syllable in 
Greek and Latin, and the accented syllable in English 
verse, is marked by a short straight line - ; the short, or 
unaccented syllable, by a little curve o . There are in 
English verse eight principal feet, of which four consist 
of two syllables, and four of three syllables. 

Dissyllabic Feet. 

1. The Iambus o _ as, relent, betray. 

2. The Trochee — o as, fairest, haughty. 

3. The Spondee as, pure gold, bright sun. 

4. The Pyrrhic o o as, on the, in a. 

Trissyllabic Feet. 

5. The Anapaest. ... o o _ as, contradict, acquiesce. 

6. The Dactyl _ o o as, labourer, capital. 

7. The Amphibrach o — o as, relenting, betraying. 

8. The Tribrach . . u u o as, nu-merable, hon-oiirable. 

Four of these, the Iambic, Trochee, Anapaest, and 
Dactyl, are called principal feet, because verses may be 
wholly, and must be chiefly, formed from them : the 
others are called secondary, because they are only used 
to diversify the metre, and prevent the ear from being 
wearied by the constant repetition of the same metres. 



16 ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. 

I. Iambic Verse. 

1 . The shortest form of the English Iambic consists of 
an Iambus and an additional short syllable, that is, it 
has the form of an Amphibrach. It is only found in 
stanzas, or parts of a poem, being too short to be con- 
tinued through any great number of lines. 

Assailing, 
Prevailing, 
Consenting, 
Repenting. 

2. The second Iambic metre contains two Iambuses : 

like the former, it is only used in stanzas : 

Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod. 

3. To the preceding form, a short syllable is sometimes 
added : 

Prevailing sadness, 
That leads to madness. 

4. The fourth Iambic metre contains three Iambuses : 

They come in strength array'd, 
With banners wide display'd. 

5. The fifth Iambic metre is formed by adding a syl- 
lable to the preceding : 

Th6 heart shall feel no sorrow, 
' For joy shall gild the morrow. 

6. The sixth Iambic form contains four Iambuses. 

As it consists of eight syllables, it is commonly called 

the octosyllabic metre ; the comic poem of Hudibras 

being written in this measure, has given it the name of 

Hudibrastic verse ; but Sir Walter Scott's example proves 

that it is also applicable to serious subjects : 

Now when, like lobster boil'd, the morn 
From black to red began to turn ; 



ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. 17 

They came, like mountain-torrent red, 
That thunders o'er its rocky bed ; 
They sank like that same torrent's wave, 
When swallow'd by a darksome cave. 

7. The seventh Iambic metre contains five Iambuses. 

From its being used chiefly for subjects of importance, 

it is called the epic or heroic measure ; and, when every 

two lines rhyme, it is termed the heroic couplet. Though 

the heroic metre properly consists of five Iambuses, it, 

as well as most of the English common measures, admits 

the occasional introduction of other feet, for the sake of 

variety : — 

Eternal Hope, when yonder spheres sublime 
Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time, 
Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade. 
When all the sister-planets have decay'd ; - 
When, wrapt in fire, the realms of ether glow, 
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below ; 
Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. 

8. The eighth Iambic form contains six Iambuses : 

it is called an Alexandrine, and is now only used to 

diversify heroic verses : 

A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 

9. The last Iambic form, now rarely used, consists of 

seven Iambuses : 

The" Lord descended from above, and bow'd the heav'ns on high ; 
And underneath his feet he placed the darkness of the sky. 

But it is more usual to break this into a lyric measure, 
or into two verses, consisting alternately of eight and 
six syllables : 

The Lord descended from above, 

And bow'd the heav'ns on high ; 
And underneath his feet he placed 
The darkness of the sky. 

B 



18 ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. 

II. Trochaic Verse. 

1. The shortest Trochaic verse consists of a Trochee 

and an additional long syllable. It is rarely used. 

Horrid War 
Yokes his car. 

2. The second Trochaic form consists of two Trochees : 

Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure. 

3. The third Trochaic metre is formed from the second, 

by the addition of a long syllable : 

Sweet the days of youth, 
Dignified by truth. 

4. The fourth Trochaic form contains three Trochees : 

Fast the night is falling, 
Sights and sounds appalling. 

5. The fifth Trochaic metre consists of three Trochees 
and an additional long syllable : 

Now my weary lips I close ; 
Leave me, leave me to repose. 

6. The sixth form of English Trochaic verse consists 
of four Trochees : 

Saw ye not the lightning flashing 1 
Heard ye not the thunder crashing ? 

7. The seventh Trochaic form, which is rarely used, 
is composed of four Trochees and a long syllable : 

Thus he spoke in sorrow and despair. 

8. The eighth Trochaic form, also rarely used, consists 
of five Trochees : 

All that come from yonder desert island, 
From its barren moor or stony high land. 

9. The ninth Trochaic form, also rarely used, contains 

six Trochees : 

On a mountain, stretch'd beneath a hoary willow, 
Lay a shepherd swain, and view'd the rolling billow. 



ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. 19 

III. Anap^stic Verse. 

1. The first Anapaestic measure contains a single 
Anapaest ; it is frequently confounded with the first 

Trochaic : 

If again 

They complain. 

2. The second Anapaestic metre consists of two 

Anapaests : 

All our labour must fail, 
If the wicked prevail. 

3. The third Anapaestic form consists of two Anapaests 

and a short syllable : 

In the cave of the mountain, 
By the side of the fountain. 

4. The fourth Anapaestic form consists of three Ana- 
paests : 

In the nations thy place is left void, 

Thou art lost in the list of the free ; 
Even realms by the plague and the earthquake destroy 'd, 

May revive — but no hope is for thee. 

5. The fifth Anapaestic metre consists of four Anapaests : 

May I govern my passions with absolute sway, 
And grow wiser and better as life wears away. 

6. The sixth Anapaestic metre is formed from the pre- 
ceding, by the addition of a short syllable : 

From the top of that hill, see, the sun is descending. 
The Anapaestic metres are almost infinitely varied by 
the introduction of secondary feet. 

IV. The Amphibrachic Metre. 

The Amphibrachic metres are principally used in hu- 
morous poetry 5 they consist of either two or three 

Amphibrachs : 

If this be your fashion, 
To fly in a passion, 
Y6u may keep the whole house to yourself. 

B % 



20 ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. 

V. Dactylic Poetry. 

There are but few specimens of pure Dactylic poetry 

in the English language. The best was written by Dr. 

Southey. Each verse contains four Dactyls : 

Weary way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart, 
Travelling painfully over the rugged road ; 
Wild-visaged wanderer ! oh, for thy heavy chance ! 

Southey also attempted to naturalize the Sapphic 
stanza and the hexameter verse ; but the structure of 
both is so opposed to the peculiarities of the English 
language, that he completely failed. The effort, however, 
was laudable, and, from the following specimens, the 
reader will perceive that the failure was not owing to 
any want of ability on the part of fhat distinguished poet. 

A Sapphic stanza consists of three Sapphic lines and 
one Adonic ; the Sapphic line is composed of a Trochee, 
a Spondee, a Dactyl, and two Trochees ; the Adonic 
consists of a Dactyl and Spondee : 

Cold was the night-wind, drifting fast the snow fell, 
Wide were the downs, and shelterless, and naked, 
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, 
Weary and waysore. 

In Hexameter verse, the first four feet may be either 
Dactyls or Spondees, but the fifth must be a Dactyl, and 
the sixth a Spondee ; but, in English verse, a Trochee 
must be substituted for a Spondee : 

Fade like the | hopes of | youth, till the | beauty 6f | earth is d6 j parted. 

Of the C^sura. 
The Caesura is the pause between one word and another, 
which divides the verse into two equal or unequal parts. 
On its right disposition depends, in a great degree, the 



ENGLISH VERSIFICATION. 21 

harmony of the verse. The Ceesural pause may, but 
must not of necessity, coincide with a pause in the 
sense. 

The Csssural pause may take place after the fourth 
syllable : 

Peal'd their first notes" to sound the march of Time. 

Or it may come after the fifth syllable : 

If Greece must perish," we thy will obey. 
Or after the sixth syllable : 

A generous friendship" no cold medium knows. 

Or two Caesuras may divide the verse into three portions ; 
but this produces rather a harsh effect : 

Some love to stray," there lodged," amused, and fed. 

But the introduction of semi-Csesural pauses frequently 

increases the melodious flow of the verse : 

Warms' in the sun," refreshes' in the breeze, 
Glows' in the stars," and blossoms' in the trees, 
Lives' through all life," extends' through all extent, 
Spreads' undivided," operates' unspent. 



22 



ON READING POETRY. 



It is much more difficult to read poetry well, than prose : 
if read without any attention to the metre, it becomes 
perfectly prosaic ; if the metre be the only, or even the 
chief, object of attention, the reader falls into a semi- 
musical sing-song, — a style something between reading 
and singing, with all the disadvantages incident to both, 
and without any of the merits of either. The inversions, 
or irregular arrangements, of words allowed in poetry, 
greatly increase the difficulty. Were we, for instance, 
to express in prose the following couplet : 

Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring 
Of woes unnumber'd, heavenly Goddess, sing ! 

it would run thus : " Sing, O heavenly Goddess ! the 
wrath of Achilles, the direful spring of unnumbered woes 
to Greece." And this example is by no means one of 
the most remarkable instances of inversion that could 
be adduced. 

One of the most difficult things in the world is, to 
give rules for reading. So many' of the qualifications 
of a good reader depend upon the structure of the organs 
of speech ; so many more are the result of habits formed 
before the will or the reason could exercise control -, and, 
finally, so many depend on the management of the voice, 
according to circumstances, that a system of general 
rules would be, in most cases, useless, and, in many, 
prejudicial. There are, however, some few principles, to 
which the student's attention should be directed ; not 



ON READING POETRY. 23 

because they will certainly make him read well, but 
because, if he neglects them, he will undoubtedly read 
badly. 

The first and most important is, " Be sure you under- 
stand what you read." If you do not conceive, yourself, 
the sentiments of the author, it is utterly impossible 
that you should give them expression. But if you per- 
fectly understand your author, you will know where to 
make the proper pauses, and lay the proper emphasis 
that the subject requires. Take, for instance, the fol- 
lowing couplet : 

Hope springs eternal in the human breast ; 
Man never is, but always to be blest. 

The last line, carelessly read, would be nearly nonsense, 
or, if it had any meaning, it would be, that " man exists 
always for the enjoyment of happiness." But the inten- 
tion of the poet is, that man does not enjoy any present 
happiness, but always looks forward to future bliss. To 
express this meaning, the emphasis must be thrown on 
the words is and to be, and the line be read as if printed 
Man never is, but always to be blest. 
The next point to which the young reader's attention 
should be directed, is the metrical structure of the 
stanza or verse. It is not meant that he should, in 
reading, absolutely resolve each line into its several feet ; 
but he should know what the feet are, so as to mark by 
a slight stress the accented syllables. It is very difficult 
to do this without falling into a kind of tune that is 
extremely unpleasant ; and this will certainly happen, 
if the student read with any but his speaking voice. If, 
however, he be careful to use a natural, and not an 
affected voice, a little practice will enable him to read 



24 ON READING POETRY. 

poetry metrically, without converting it into a bad 
song. 

The caesural pauses, and the pauses at the end of each 
line, constitute the last difficulty in poetry that we shall 
notice. The pauses must be made by suspending, not 
dropping, the breath, and they must be so short as not to 
cause any interruption in the sense. But the practical 
application of this rule, as indeed of all other directions 
respecting reading, must depend very much on the good- 
ness of the learner's ear, and the care of his tutor. 



25 



DIFFERENT SPECIES OF POETRY. 



The origin and nature of Poetry are subjects that have 
been frequently discussed, and to very little purpose. 
In the early ages of almost every nation, we find the 
first compositions to have a poetic form : the history, 
the laws, and even the covenants of bargain and lease, 
were composed in verse, and were thus preserved in 
the memory, when the art of writing was confined to a 
few, or wholly unknown. The early history of Rome 
was contained in historical ballads, and from them the 
later historians derived the accounts they have trans- 
mitted to us. Many remains of the metrical laws of 
the Northern nations are still in existence ; and the 
following curious specimen of a rhyming tenure will show 
how verse was used as an aid to memory by our Saxon 
ancestors. It is necessary to add, that we have mo- 
dernized the orthography. 

I, Edward, King, 

Have given of my forest the keeping, 

To Randolph Peperking and to his kindling 1, 

With hart and hind, doe and buck, 

Hare and fox, cat and brock 2, 

Wild fowl with his flock, 

Partridge, pheasant hen and pheasant cock, &c. 

A different, and, perhaps, an earlier species of poetry, 
was that which, from its connexion with music, has been 
termed Lyrical. 

To worship the Author of all goodness with hymns, 

1 Family. 2 Badger. 



26 ON THE DIFFERENT 

is a feeling so natural, that it seems almost instinctive. 
The elements of natural music are every where around 
us j the songs of the birds, the whispering of the breeze 
through the forest, the hum of bees, the murmuring of 
the sea in a calm, and its roar during a tempest, are 
sounds that fill the soul with admiration, and which we 
soon strive to imitate. The Ode, or Hymn, was, when 
first invented, designed to be accompanied with music, 
and was also connected with divine worship. 

We have thus discovered, in the early ages, three dis- 
tinct species of poetry, — the Narrative, the Didactic, and 
the Lyric ; to these were soon added, the Descriptive, 
the Pastoral, and the Dramatic. Satirical poetry be- 
longs to a period when society was far advanced ; it may, 
however, be considered as derived from the Didactic, 
because the censure of evil is a necessary consequence 
from the teaching of good. 

Narrative poetry was originally nothing more than 
history in verse ; but from it was derived Epic, or Heroic 
poetry, generally esteemed the noblest species of com- 
position. The requisites for an epic poem are numerous ; 
but the chief are, that the subject should be important, 
entire, and of sufficient magnitude ; that it should be 
related in language embellished and rendered pleasur- 
able 3 and that it should represent events above the 
circumstances of ordinary life. The continuity of the 
narrative should also be interrupted, but not broken, by 
episodes, or narratives, remotely connected with the 
main story, in order to give the poem the charm of va- 
riety. The greatest epic poem in our language, and 
probably in the world, is the Paradise Lost of Milton ; 
and in the three great requisites, — matter, manner, and 



SPECIES OF POETRY. 27 

means, — it is nearly perfect. Assuredly, no subject could 
be more important to man, than the loss of primeval 
innocence, with all its tremendous consequences. It is 
also a narrative complete in itself, having the beginning, 
middle, and end, definitely marked. Its stupendous 
magnitude almost surpasses the boldest stretch of 
imagination ; it embraces at once the concerns of time 
and of eternity. The manner of the Paradise Lost in- 
cludes both the language and the structure of the verse : 
on this it would be useless to dwell 5 to speak of them 
with adequate praise, would tax the powers of a second 
Milton. The episodes of this great epic are not among 
the least of its beauties : nothing can be more sublimely 
terrific than the descriptions of Sin and Death, — nothing 
more exquisitely delightful than the pictures of the inno- 
cent and happy life led by our first parents in Paradise. 

In this little volume we have quoted from another 
English epic, Madoc, by Dr. Southey, to which we gladly 
refer as an example of epic poetry, less sublime, indeed, 
than that of Milton, but scarcely less pleasing. 

Allegorical poetry may be considered as a species of 
Narrative. In this, personifications are introduced, in- 
stead of persons j thus, Spenser's description of Pride 
as a queen : 

High above all a cloth of state was spread, 
And a rich throne as bright as sunny day ; 
On which there sate, most brave embellished 
With royal robes and gorgeous array, 
A maiden Queen, that shone, as Titan's 1 ray, 
In glistering gold and peerless precious stone ; 
Yet her bright-blazing beauty did essay 
To dim the brightness of her glorious throne, 
As envying herself, that too exceeding shone. 

1 Titan, a Greek epithet of the sun. 



28 ON THE DIFFERENT 

Or the power of human speech and human motives are 
attributed to animals and inanimate objects, as in Gay's 
Fables. 

Romantic Narrative poetry is of very modern inven- 
tion. Our specimens are taken from the best of those 
who have cultivated the style, — Southey and Scott. The 
former has laboured successfully to unite the extravagant 
fictions of the Eastern nations with the grace and deli- 
cacy of the West ; the latter has given an air of modern 
refinement to the style of the old metrical romancers, 
who wrote on heroic subjects, without aspiring to the 
sublimity and dignity of epic poetry. 

The aim of Didactic poetry is to instruct, and, in it, 
pleasure is but a secondary consideration. English lite- 
rature is peculiarly rich in this species of composition : 
Young's Night Thoughts, Akenside's Pleasures of Ima- 
gination, Rogers's Pleasures of Memory, and Campbell's 
Pleasures of Hope, have contributed the chief examples 
of Didactic poetry in this volume. 

We have ventured to regard Satirical poetry as a spe- 
cies of Didactic ; of this, the best example is Dryden's 
Absalom and Achitophel : there are few instances of me- 
rited satire that can equal the severe, but just, character 
of Villiers, duke of Buckingham, contained in that 

poem: 

A man so various, that he seem'd to be, 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome : 
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong ; 
Was every thing by starts, and nothing long ; 
But, in the course of one revolving moon, 
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon. 
Railing and praising were his usual themes ; 
And both, to show his judgment, in extremes. 
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art ; 
Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 



SPECIES OF POETRY. 29 

Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late ; 

He had his jest, and they had his estate. » 

He laugh'd himself from court ; then sought relief 

By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief. 

Thus wicked but in will, of means bereft, 

He left not faction, but of that was left. 

Lyrical poetry is capable of numerous subdivisions, 
which it would be tedious to specify. The most remark- 
able are, the greater Ode, the lesser Ode, Ballads, and 
Hymns. In the greater Ode, a more sustained elevation, 
both of thought and expression, is required, than in Epic 
poetry ; it should also be characterized by rapturous en- 
thusiasm and quick transitions. We have given two 
examples of the greater Ode, Gray's Bard, and his Pro- 
gress of Poetry. 

The characteristics of the lesser Ode are sweetness and 
ease ; it comprehends a great variety of styles, from the 
sublime down to the ludicrous and sportive. In Wolfe's 
Ode on The Burial of Sir John Moore, we have an ex- 
ample of true sublimity in the lesser Ode : 

Not a drum was heard — nor a funeral note, 

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 

O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud we bound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 



30 ON THE DIFFERENT 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away, on the billow. 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er the cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 
When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun, 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line — we raised not a stone, 
But left him alone in his glory. 

The lesser Ode is the appropriate vehicle for detached 
thoughts and reflections, whether suggested by some 
external object, or arising within the mind. Numerous 
examples of both may be found in our periodical litera- 
ture. The former is beautifully portrayed in the fol- 
lowing poem, by an unknown writer : 

EVENING THOUGHTS. 

'Twas eve. The lengthening shadows of the oak 
And weeping birch swept far adown the vale ; 

And nought upon the hush and stillness broke, 
Save the light whispering of the spring-tide gale 

At distance dying ; and the measured stroke 
Of wood-men at their toil ; the feeble wail 

Of some lone stock-dove, soothing, as it sank 

On the lull'd ear, its melody that drank. 

The sun had set ; but his expiring beams 
Yet linger'd in the west, and shed around 

Beauty and softness o'er the wood and streams, 
With coming night's first tinge of shade embrown'd. 

The light clouds mingled, brighten'd with such gleams- 
Of glory, as the seraph-shapes surround, 

That in the vision of the good descend, 

And o'er their couch of sorrow seem to bend. 



SPECIES OF POETRY. 31 

There are emotions, in that grateful hour 

Of twilight and serenity, which steal 
Upon the heart with more than wonted power, 

Making more pure and tender all we feel, — 
Softening its very core, as doth the shower 

The thirsty glebe of summer. We reveal 
More, in such hours of stillness, unto those 
We love, than years of passion could disclose. 

The heavens look down on us with eyes of love, 
And earth itself looks heavenly ; the sleep 

Of nature is around us, but above 
Are beings that eternal vigils keep. 

Tis sweet to dwell on such, and deem they strove 
With sorrow once, and fled from crowds to weep 

In loneliness, as we perchance have done ; 

And sigh to win the glory they have won ! 

'Tis sweet to mark the sky's unruffled blue 
Fast deepening into darkness, as the rays 

Of lingering eve die fleetly, and a few 
Stars of the brightest beam illume the blaze, 

Like woman's eye of loveliness, seen through 
The veil, that shadows it in vain ; we gaze 

In mute and stirless transport, fondly listening 

As there were music in its very glistening. 

'Tis thus in solitude ; but sweeter far, 

By those we love, in that all-softening hour, 

To watch with mutual eyes each coming star, 
And the faint moon-rays streaming through our bower 

Of foliage, wreathed and trembling, as the car 
Of night rolls duskier onward, and each flower 

And shrub that droops above us, on the sense 

Seems dropping fragrance more and more intense. 

There are many Odes of Reflection in our language •. 
and many Lyrical pieces, which express the thoughts 
that memory suggests to the imagination. We shall 
quote, as an instance, the following brief Ode, by Pro- 
fessor Wilson : 



32 ON THE DIFFERENT 

THE PAST. 

How wild and dim this life appears ! 

One long, deep, heavy sigh, 
When o'er our eyes, half-closed in tears, 
The images of former years 
Are faintly glittering by ! 
And still forgotten while they go ; 
As, on the sea-beach, wave on wave 

Dissolves at once in snow. 
The amber clouds one moment lie, 
Then, like a dream, are gone ! 
Though beautiful the moonbeams play 
On the lake's bosom, bright as they, 
And the soul intensely loves their stay, 
Soon as the radiance melts away, 
We scarce believe it shone ! 
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell ; 

And we wish they ne'er may fade ; — 
They cease, — and the soul is a silent cell, 

Where music never play'd ! 
Dream follows dream, through the long night-hours, 

Each lovelier than the last ; 
But, ere the breath of morning-flowers, 

That gorgeous world flies past ; 
And many a sweet angelic cheek, 
Whose smiles of love and fondness speak, 

Glides by us on this earth ; 
While in a day we cannot tell 
Where shone the face we loved so well, 
In sadness, or in mirth ! 

We have dwelt at what may seem disproportionate 
length on this species of lyric poetry ; but the reason 
of this is, that no other species of poetry admits so 
many varieties of style and metre. Having now given 
three specimens of the serious Ode, we shall quote one 
of the sportive ; and scarcely could we select a better 
than the following, written by Mrs. Gilman, an Ame- 
rican lady : 



SPECIES OF POETRY. 33 

THE CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE. 

Mother, mother, the winds are at play; 

Prithee let me be idle to-day. ■ . 

Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie 

Languidly under the bright blue sky ; 

See, how slowly 1 the streamlet glides ; 
Look, how the violet roguishly hides ; 
Even the butterfly rests on the rose, 
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. 

Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun, 
And the flies go about him, one by one ; 
And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, 
Without ever thinking of washing her face. 

There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree ; 
But very lazily flieth he ; 
And he sits and twitters a gentle note, 
That scarcely ruffles his little throat. 

You bid me be busy ; but, mother, hear 
How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near ; 
And the soft west wind is so light in its play, 
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. 

I wish, oh, I wish I were yonder cloud, 
That sails about with its misty shroud ; 
Books and work I no more should see, 
But I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee ! 

Of the Satirical Ode, one stanza will be a sufficient 
specimen 5 it is descriptive of a pretended patriot, re- 
markable for inconsistency in temper and conduct. 

Each hour a different face he wears; 
Now in a fury, now in tears, 

Now laughing, now in sorrow ; 
Now he'll command, and now obey, 
Bellows for liberty to-day, 

And roars for power to-morrow. 

The Ballad is a simpler species of lyric composition 
than the Ode ; it is sometimes confounded with a com- 
mon song ; but, in general, the ballad contains some 
plain narrative, in which there are but few incidents. 
Mrs. Hemans's song of the Cid, and Casabianca, in this 

c 



34 ON THE DIFFERENT ' 

collection, are beautiful specimens of the lyrical ballad. 
Of the hymn and song, it is scarcely necessary to speak • 
for the reader's recollection will easily supply him with 
sufficient examples of both. 

Pastoral poetry is descriptive of rural life, not as it 
really exists, but as it might have existed, if the world 
was an Eden. It is, consequently, more valuable for its 
descriptions of external nature and scenery, than for 
accuracy in the delineation of character. It is, perhaps, 
owing to the love of excitement, which forms part of 
our national character, that purely pastoral poetry has 
never been popular in England. 

Descriptive poetry is closely allied to pastoral, and of 
this species our literature possesses a great abundance : 
from Thomson's Seasons we have selected several pas- 
sages purely descriptive ; from Cowper's Task specimens 
of the descriptive, mixed with the didactic. 

Of minor species of poetry, the most remarkable are, 
the Elegy, the Epitaph, the Epigram, and the Sonnet. 
The elegy is, properly speaking, a species of the lesser 
ode ; its requisites are perfect simplicity, and a careful 
avoidance of affected elegancies : it is, for the most part, 
used only for mournful or funeral subjects. 

The Epitaph is an inscription for a tomb. We find 
both illustrated in Gray's beautiful Elegy in a Country 
Church-yard, to which an epitaph is subjoined. 

ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 

The curfewl tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea 2, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, ' 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

1 curfew, a bell rung in the evening ; it was anciently the signal for extinguishing 
fires. 2 lea, a held. 



SPECIES OF POETRY. 35 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion3, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle 4 yield, 
Their furrowS oft the stubborn glebe6 has broke ; 

How jocund? did they drive their team a-field ! 
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldryS, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour : 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud ! impute to these the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies9 raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aislelO and frettedll vaultis, 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

3 clarion, a kind of trumpet; here, a 8 boast of heraldry, pride of family. 

sound like that of the trumpet. 9 trophies, memorials of triumph." 

4 sickle, the hook with which corn is cut. 10 aisle, the passage of a church. 

5 furroio, the track of the plough. 11 fretted, adorned with raised work. 

6 glebe, the earth. 12 mult, here, a vaulted roof. 
^jocund, merry. 

C 2 



36 ON THE DIFFERENT 

Can storied urn 13 or animated bustl4 

Back to its mansion call the fleetinglS breath 1 

Can Honour's voice provokel-6 the silent dust, 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death 1 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, | 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill Penuryl? repress'd their noble ragelS, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 

The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampdenl9, that with dauntless breast 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine20 of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 

Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

13 storied urn, an urn with an inscription. 17 penury, poverty. 

14 animated bust, a bust so admirably 18 rage, any strong passion. 

carved that it seems like life. 19 Hampden, a celebrated member of 

15 Jieeting, departing quickly. parliament in the reign of Charles I, 

16 provoke, arouse. 20 shrine, repository of any thing sacred. 



g 



SPECIES OF POETRY. 37 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouthSl rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their names, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, — • 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 

Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, 

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate : 
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ; 

Haply some hoary-headed swain22 may say, 

" Oft have I seen him, at the peep of dawn, 
" Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 

" To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

" There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
" That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

" His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
" And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
" Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; 

" Now drooping, woful wan ! like one forlorn, 
" Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

" One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, 
" Along the heath, and near his favourite tree ; 

" Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
" Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

21 uncouth, inelegant. 22 swain, a rustic, a countryman. 



38 ON THE DIFFERENT 

" The next, with dirges23 due, and sad array, 
" Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne : 

" Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
" Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 24 

CJe (Epttapf). 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompence as largely send : 
He gave to Misery, all he had — a tear ; 

He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 

No further seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

The following little epitaph, by Ben Jonson, is one of 
the most exquisite in our language : — 

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, 

Sister to Sir Philip Sidney. 

Underneath this marble hearsel 
Lies the subject of all verse ; 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; 
Death, ere thou hast slain another, 
Learned, fair, and good as she, 
Time shall throw his dart at thee. 

An Epigram was originally a metrical inscription on 
a statue,, or some remarkable edifice • it subsequently 
was used to signify any short piece of poetry, terminat- 

23 dirges, funeral songs. 

24 In the poem, as originally written, the following beautiful stanza preceded 
the Epitaph : — 

There, scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, 

By hands unseen, are show'rs of violets found ; 
The red-breast loves to build and warble there, 
And little footsteps lightly print the ground. 
It was afterwards omitted, because it seemed too long a parenthesis. 
1 hearse, commonly a bier ; but here, a tomb. 



SPENSER. 43 

And after these there came the Day and Night,' 
Riding together both with equal pace ; 
Th' one on a palfrey black, the other white : 
But Night had covered her uncomely face 
With a black veil, and held in hand a mace, 
On top whereof the moon and stars were pight 1 ^, 
And Sleep and Darkness round about did trace : 
But Day did bear upon his Sceptre's height 
The goodly Sun encompass 1 d all with beames bright. 

Then came the Hours, fair daughters of high Jove 
And timely 14 Night; the which were all endued 
With wondrous beauty fit to kindle love ; 
But they were virgins all, and love eschewed 15 
That might forslack 16 the charge to them foreshewed 
By mighty Jove ; who did them porters make 
Of heavens gate (whence all the gods issued) 
Which they did daily watch, and nightly wake 
By even turns, nor ever did their charge forsake. 

And after all came Life ; and lastly Death : 
Death with most grim and grisly visage seen, 
Yet is he nought but parting of the breath ; 
Ne !8 ought to see, but like a shade to ween 19, 
Unbodied, unsoul'd, unheard, unseen : 
But Life was like a fair young lusty boy, 
Such as they feign Dan 20 Cupid to have been, 
Full of delightful health and lively joy, 
Deck'd all with flowers and wings of gold fit to employ. 



13 piglit, placed, pitched. 18 ne, nor. 

14 timely, coming in due season. 19 to ween, to think of 

15 eschewed, avoided. 20 Dan, Master, Sir, like the Spanish 

16 forslack, cause to be neglected. Don. 

17 foreshewed, previously shown and 

intrusted. 



44 



SIR JOHN DAVIE S 

Was born at Chicksgrove in Wiltshire, A. D. 1570; he was educated 
as a lawyer, and soon after being called to the bar obtained a seat in the 
House of Commons. He was sent to Ireland as Solicitor-general by 
James the First, where he obtained the rank of Attorney-general, and 
was elected Speaker of the first Irish House of Commons formed by a 
general representation. He returned to England, and again obtained a 
seat in the English Parliament. He died of apoplexy, December 7, 1626. 
Though Davies was more eminent as a lawyer than a poet, his merits 
in the latter capacity are of a very high order. There is a manly earnest- 
ness and strong moral feeling in his verses, his style is easy and flowing, 
his language at once natural and polished. 



THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 

O ignorant poor man ! what dost thou bear 
Lock'd up within the casket of thy breast? 

What jewels, and what riches hast thou there ? 
What heavnly treasure in so weak a chest ? 

Look in thy soul, and thou shalt "beauties find, 

Like those which drown 1 d Narcissus 1 in the flood : ] 

Honour and pleasure both are in thy mind, 
And all that in the world is counted good. 

Think of her worth, and think that God did mean, 
This worthy mind should worthy things embrace : 

Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts unclean, 
Nor her dishonour with thy passion base. 

Kill not her quick' ning 2 power with surfeitings: 

Mar not her sense with sensuality : 
Cast not away her wit on idle things : 

Make not her free will slave to vanity. 

1 Narcissus, a beautiful youth, fabled to have died from love of his own image 
which he accidentally saw reflected in a stream; and to have been changed 
into the flower that bears his name. 

2 quickening, life-giving. 



SIR JOHN DAVIES. 45 

And when thou think' st of her eternity, 
Think not that death against her nature is ; 

Think it a birth : and when thou go'st to die, 
Sing like a swan 3 , as if thou went'st to bliss. 

And if thou, like a child, didst fear before, 

Being in the dark, where thou didst nothing see ; 

Now I have brought thee torch-light, fear no more ; 
Now when thou diest, thou canst not hood-winked be. 

And thou, my soul, which turn'st with curious eye 
To view the beams of thine own form divine, 

Know, that thou canst know nothing perfectly, 
While thou art clouded with this flesh of mine. 

Take heed of overweening 4 , and compare 

Thy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's train : 

Study the best and highest things that are, 
But of thyself an humble thought retain. 

Cast down thyself, and only strive to raise 

The glory of thy Maker's sacred name : 
Use all thy powers, that blessed power to praise, 

Which gives thee power to be, and use the same. 



3 swan, the swan is fabled to utter some melodious notes immediately before 
its death. 

4 overweening, self-importance. 



46 



PHINEAS FLETCHER. 

Of this poet's personal history almost nothing is known; he held the, 
living of Helgay, in Norfolk, where he died about A.D. 1650. The 
Purple Island is an allegorical poem in the style of Spenser ; but Fletcher 
does not possess the rich imagery and melodious versification of his 
master. It is, however, a poem that contains many passages which, both 
for diction and sentiment, can scarcely be excelled in our language. 



INTELLECT, THE PRINCE OF THE PURPLE ISLAND 1. 

The island's prince, of frame more than celestial, 
Is rightly called th' all-seeing Intellect ; 

All glorious bright, such nothing is terrestrial ; 
Whose sun-like face, and most divine aspect, 
No human sight may ever hope descry ; 
For when himself on's self reflects his eye, 
Dull and amazed he stands at so bright majesty. 

Look, as the sun, whose ray and searching light, 
Here, there, and every where, itself displays, 

No nook or corner flies his piercing sight ; 
Yet on himself when he reflects his rays, 

Soon back he flings the too bold venturing gleam, 
Down to the earth the flames all broken stream ; 
Such is this famous Prince, — such his unpierced beam. 

Though travelling all places, changing none ; 
Bid him soar up to heaven, and thence down throwing, 
The centre search, and Dis' 2 dark realm ; he's gone, 
Returns, arrives, before thou saw'st him going ; 
And while his weary kingdom safely sleeps, 
AU restless night he watch and warding keeps ; 
Never his careful head on resting pillow steeps. 

1 T/ie purple island : the island is an 2 Dis, Pluto, the Pagan god of the in- 
allegorical representation of man, fernal regions, where the souls were 
and intellect is naturally described supposed to reside after death, 
as its sovereign.. 



PHINEAS FLETCHER. 47 

He knows nor death, nor years, nor feeble age, 
But as his time, his strength and vigour grows ; 

And when his kingdom, by intestine rage, 
Lies broke and wasted, open to his foes ; 

And batter d sconce 3 now flat and even lies ; 
Sooner than thought to that great Judge he flies, 
"Who weighs him just reward of good, or injuries. 

For he the Judge's viceroy here is placed, 
Where, if he live, as knowing he may die, 

He never dies, but with fresh pleasures graced, 
Bathes his crown'd head in soft eternity ; 

Where thousand joys and pleasures ever new, 

And blessings thicker than the morning dew, 

With endless sweets rain down on that immortal crew. 

There golden stars, set in the crystal snow ; 
There dainty joys, laugh at white-headed caring ; 

There day no night, delight no end shall know ; 
Sweets without surfeit, fulness without sparing ; 
And by its spending, growing happiness : 
There God himself in glory's lavishness, 
Diffus'd in all, to all, is all full blessedness. 

But if he here neglect his Master's law, 
And with those traitors 'gainst his Lord rebels, 

Down to the deeps ten thousand fiends him draw ; 
Deeps where night, death, despair, and horror, dwells, 
And in worst ills, still worse expecting, fears ; 
Where fell despite for spite his bowels tears ; 
And still increasing grief and torment never wears. 

Pray'rs there are idle, death is woo'd in vain ; 
In midst of death, poor wretches long to die : 

Night without day, or rest, still doubling pain; 
Woes spending still, yet still their end less nigh : 

3 sconce, a fortification, a redoubt, _2 



48 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 

The soul there restless, helpless, hopeless, lies ; 
There ceaseless racks 4 the "body agonize ; 
There's life that never lives, there's death that never dies. 

Hence, while unsettled here he fighting reigns, 
Shut in a tower, where thousand enemies 

Assault the fort ; with wary care and pains, 
He guards all entrance, and, hy divers spies, 

Searcheth into his foes' and friends' designs ; 
For most he fears his subjects' wavering minds ; 
This tower then only falls when treason undermines. 

Therefore, while yet he lurks in earthly tent, 
Disguis'd in worthless robes and poor attire, 
Try we to view his glory's wonderment 5 , 
And get a sight of what we so admire ; 

For when away from this sad place he flies, 
And in the skies abides, more bright than skies, 
Too glorious is his sight for our dim mortal eyes. 



THE HAPPINESS OF A RURAL LIFE. 

The shepherds, guarded from the sparkling heat 
Of blazing air, upon the flowery banks, 

(Where various flow'rs damask 6 the fragrant seat, 
And all the grove perfume,) in wonted ranks, 
Securely sit them down, and sweetly play : 
At length thus Thirsis ends his broken lay, 
Lest that the stealing night his later song might stay. 

" Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state ! 
When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns 7 ! 

His cottage low, and safely humble gate, 
Shuts out proud Fortune with her scorns and fawns 8 : 

4 racks, instruments of torture. 7 pawns, the lowest in rank ; the least 

5 wonderment, wonderful nature. valuable of chess-men are called 

6 damask, adorn with various colours pawns. 

and devices. 8 fawns, fawnings, flatteries. 



PHINEAS FLETCHER. 49 

No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep : 
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep ; 
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. 

" No Serian worms 4 he knows, that with their thread 
Draw out their silken lives : — nor silken pride ! 

His lambs warm fleece well fits his little need, 
Not in that proud Sidonian 5 tincture dy'd : 

No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright ; 
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite ; 
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. 

" Instead of music, and base flattering tongues, 
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise ; 

The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, 
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes. 
In country plays is all the strife he uses ; 
Or song, or dance, unto J;he rural Muses, 
And but in music's sports all difference refuses. 

" His certain life, that never can deceive him, 
Is full of thousand sweets and rich content : 

The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him 
With coolest shades, till noon-tide's rage is spent : 
His life is neither tost in boist'rous seas 
Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease ; 
Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God can please. 

" His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, 
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place : 

His little son into his bosom creeps, 
The lively picture of his father's face : 

Never his humble house or state torment him ; 
Less he could like, if less his God had sent him ; 
And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content him. 

4 Serian worms ; silk-worms, originally brought from the country of the Serfs, 

or northern Chinese. 

5 Sidonian, purple; the finest purple dye known to the ancients was obtained 

from a shell-fish, found on the coasts of Tyre and Sidon. The colour is 
more frequently called Tyrian than Sidonian. 

D 



50 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 

" The world's great Light his lowly state hath bless'd, 
And left his heav'n to be a shepherd base : 

Thousand sweet songs he to his pipe address'd : 
Swift rivers stood, beasts, trees, stones, ran apace, 
And serpents flew, to hear his softest strains : 
He fed his flock where rolling Jordan reigns ; 
Then took our rags, gave us his robes, and bore our pains. 



GILES FLETCHER, 

The brother of the preceding Poet, has left even fewer memorials of 
his unobtrusive life. He flourished about the same time as Phineas, but 
died some years before him. Though only known to posterity by a single 
poem, Christ's Victory and Triumph, yet its merits are sufficient to 
ensure him the applause of posterity. 



THE MORNING OF THE RESURRECTION. 

But now the second morning from her bower 
Began to glisten in her beams, and now 

The roses of the day began to flower 
In th' eastern garden ; for heaven s smiling brow 
Half insolent for joy began to show ; 

The early sun came lively dancing out, 

And the brag lambs ran wantoning about, 
That heaven and earth might seem in triumph both to shout 

The engladden'd spring, forgetful now to weep, 
Began t' emblazon from her leafy bed ; 

The waking swallow broke her half-year's sleep, 
And every bush lay deeply purpured 1 
"With violets, the wood's late wintry head 

1 purpured, made to appear of a purple colour. 



GILES FLETCHER. 51 

Wide flaming primroses set all on fire, 
And his bald trees put on their green attire, 
Among whose infant leaves the joyous birds conspire 2 . 

Say, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire, 
And stick' st thy habit full of daisies red ? 

Seems that thou dost to some high thought aspire, 
And some new-found-out bridegroom mean'st to wed : 
Tell me, ye trees, so fresh apparelled, 

So never let the spiteful canker waste you, 

So never let the heav'ns with lightning blast you, 
Why go you nOw so trimly drest, or whither haste you? 

Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide 
So often wanders from his nearest way, 

As though some other way thy stream would slide, 
And fain salute the place where something lay ? 
And you, sweet birds, that, shaded from the rays, 

Sit carolling and piping grief away, 

The while the lambs to hear you dance and play, 
Tell me, sweet birds, what is it you so fain would say ? 

And thou, fair spouse of Earth, that every year 
Gett'st such a numerous issue of thy bride, 

How chance thou hotter shinst, and draw'st more near? 
Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spy'd, 
That in one place for joy thou canst not hide ; 

And you, dead swallows, that so lively now, 

Through the fleet air your winged passage row, 
How could new life into your frozen ashes flow ? 

Ye primroses, and purple violets, 
Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy beds, 

And woo men's hands to rent you from your sets, 
As though you would somewhere be carried, 
With fresh perfumes and velvets garnished ? 

2 conspire, breathe, or rather sing together. 

D 2 



GILES FLETCHER. 

But, ah ! I need not ask, 'tis surely so, 
You all would to your Saviour s triumph go : 
There would ye all await, and humble homage do. 

There should the Earth herself, with garlands new 
And lovely flowers embellished, adore : 

Such roses never in her garland grew, 
Such lilies never in her breast she wore, 
Like beauty never yet did shine before : 

There should the Sun another Sun behold, 

From whence himself borrows his locks of gold, 
That kindle heaven and earth with beauties manifold. 

There might the violet, and primrose sweet, 
Beams of more lively and more lovely grace, 

Arising from their beds of incense, meet ; 
There should the swallow see new life embrace 
Dead ashes, and the grave unveil his face, 

To let the living from his bowels creep, 

Unable longer his own dead to keep : 
There heaven and earth should see their Lord awake from 
sleep. 

Their Lord, before by others judged to die, 
Now Judge of all himself ; before forsaken 

Of all the world, that from his aid did fly, 
Now by the saints into their armies taken ; 
Before for an unworthy man mistaken, 

Now worthy to be God confess'd ; before 

With blasphemies by all the basest tore, 
Now worshipped by angels that him low adore. 

Whose garment was before indipt in blood, 
But now imbrightend into heavenly flame, 

The sun itself outglitters, though he should 
Climb to the top of the celestial frame, 
And force the stars to hide themselves for shame : 



GILES FLETCHER. 53 

Before that under earth was buried, 

But now above the heavns is carried, 

And there for ever by the angels heried 3 . 

So fairest Phosphor 4 , the bright morning star, 
But newly washed in the green element, 

Before the drowsy night is half aware, 
Shooting his flaming locks with dew besprent 5 , 
Springs lively up into the orient 6 , 

And the bright drove, fleeced all in gold, he chases 

To drink, that on the Olympic mountain 7 grazes, 
The while the minor planets forfeit all their faces. 

So long he wandered in our lower sphere, 
That Heaven began his cloudy stars despise, 

Half envious to see on earth appear 
A greater light than flamed in his own skies : 
At length it burst for spite, and out there flies 

A globe of winged angels, swift as thought, 

That on their spotted feather lively caught 
The sparkling earth, and to their azure fields it brought. 



3 heried, served as their master (herus.) 

4 Phosphor, the bringer of light, i. e. the morning star. 

5 besprent, besprinkled. 

6 orient, the east ; that part of the heaven in which the celestial luminaries 

seem to rise. 

7 Olympic mountain ; Mount Olympus, in Thessaly, was fabled by the heathen 

to be the heaven of their gods. 



54 



WILLIAM HABINGTON. 



Little is known of Habington, more than that he was born A.D . 1605, 
and died A. D. 1654. He was an amiable man, and his works are more 
remarkable for excellence of principle than beauty of expression. 



THE BRIEF TRIUMPH OF THE WICKED. 

Swell no more, proud man, so high ! 

For enthroned where ere you sit, 

Raised by fortune, sin, and wit ; 
In a vault thou dust must lie. 

He who's lifted up by vice 

Hath a neighb'ring precipice, 
Dazzling his distorted eye. 

Shallow is that unsafe sea, 
Over which you spread your sail ; 
And the bark you trust to, frail 

As the winds it must obey. 
Mischief, while it prospers, brings 
Favour from the smile of kings, 

Useless, soon is thrown away. 

Profit, though sin it extort, 

Princes even accounted good,' 

Courting greatness ne'er withstood, 
Since it empire doth support. 

But when death makes them repent, 

They condemn the instrument, 
And are thought religious for 't. 

Pitch'd down from that height you bear, 
How distracted will you lie ; 
When your flattering clients fly, 



WILLIAM HABINGTON. 55 

As your fate infectious were ? 

When of all the obsequious throng, 

That moved by your eye and tongue, 
None shall in the storm appear ! 

When that abject insolence, 

(Which submits to the more great, 

And disdains the weaker state, 
As misfortune were offence,) 

Shall at court be judged a crime, 

Though in practice, and the time 
Purchase wit at your expense. 

Each small tempest shakes the proud ; 

Whose large branches vainly sprout, 

'Bove the measure of the root. 
But let storms speak ne'er so loud, 

And the astonished day be night ; 

Yet the just shines in a light, 
Fair as noon without a cloud. 





TIME. 

Time ! where didst thou those years inter 

Which have I seen decease ? 
My soul's at war, and truth bids her 
Find out their hidden sepulchre, 

To give her troubles peace. 

Pregnant with flowers, doth not the spring 

Like a late bride appear ? 
Whose feathered music only bring 
Caresses, and no requiem * sing, 

On the departed year. 

1 Requiem, a service in the Romish church for the repose of the souls of the 
dead. 



56 WILLIAM HABINGTON. 

The earth, like some rich wanton heir, 
Whose parents coffin d lie, 

Forgets it once looked pale and bare, 

And doth for vanities prepare, 

As the spring ne'er should die. 

The present hour, flattered by all, 

Reflects not on the last ; 
But I, like a sad factor, shall 
T 1 account my life each moment call, 

And only weep the past. 

My mem'ry tracks each several way, 

Since reason did begin 
Over my actions her first sway : 
And teacheth me that each new day 

Did only vary sin. 

Poor bankrupt conscience ! where are those 
Rich hours, but farm'd to thee ? 

How carelessly I some did lose, 

And other to my lust dispose, 
As no rent day should be ! 

I have infected with impure 

Disorders my past years ; 
But I'll to penitence inure 
Those that succeed. There is no cure, 

Nor antidote, but tears. 



57 



ROBERT HERRICK 

Was a native of London; he was educated at Cambridge, and, in 1629, 
received a living in Devonshire. During the usurpation of Cromwell, 
he was ejected, like many others of the episcopal clergy, but was re- 
instated on the restoration of Charles the Second. Good fortune, how- 
ever, came too late, for the poet died soon after his re-establishment 
in his former rectory. 

Herrick's poetry is remarkable for prettiness, rather 'than any higher 
quality ; and in too many instances he has sullied his verses by allusions, 
equally offensive to delicacy and good taste. 



TO BLOSSOMS. 



Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

Why do ye fall so fast ? 

Your date is not so past, 
But you may stay yet here awhile, 

To blush, and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What, were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight, 

And so to bid good night ? 
Twas pity Nature brought ye forth, 

Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite ! 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave l : 

And after they have shown their pride 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 

1 Brave, displaying pride in any qualification ; here, in external show 



ROBERT HERRICK. 
TO DAFFODILS. 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early rising sun 
Has not attain d his noon : 
Stay, stay, 
Until the hastening day 

Has run 
But to the even-song ; 
And having pray'd together, we 
Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you ; 

We have as short a spring, 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you or any thing : 
We die 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away, 
Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dew, 
Ne'er to he found again. 



JOHN MILTON, 

The acknowledged prince of British poets, was born in London, De- 
cember 9, 1608. He was, in early life, a diligent student ; and before 
he attained the age of seventeen, knew the French, Italian, Latin, Greek, 
Hebrew, and Chaldee languages, almost as familiarly as his own. He was 
sent to Cambridge, where he took the degree of M. A. in 1632. After 
a residence of five years with his father, at Horton, in Buckinghamshire, 
where he composed some of his smaller pieces, he visited Italy. On 
his return home, he found England distracted by civil war, and, led away 
by early prejudices, he embraced the Republican party. During the 
Protectorate, he held the situation of Latin Secretary to Oliver Crom- 
well, and unfortunately was induced to write in defence of the crimes of 



MILTON. 59 

the regicides. After this, he was stricken with blindness, and his im- 
mortal poem, the Paradise Lost, was dictated to his daughters, who 
acted as his amanuenses. After the restoration, Milton was supposed to 
be in some danger ; but he was protected by Sir W. Davenant, to whom 
he had rendered the same service when the Commonwealth was 
triumphant. Paradise Lost was sold to a bookseller, for a miserable sum, 
and published in 1667 ; Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes ap- 
peared in 1670. From thenceforward, the poet lived in retirement, 
and died, A.D.I 674. 

The best character of Milton's powers, are to be found in the well- 
known epigram of Dryden, which can scarcely be deemed too lauda- 
tory : — 

Three poets, in three distant ages born, 

Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. 

The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd ; 

The next in majesty ; in both the last. 
9 The force of Nature could no further go, 

To make a third, she join'd the former two. 



THE GARDEN OF EDEN. 

Southward through Eden went a river large, 

Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy 1 hill 

Pass'd underneath ingulf 'd ; for God had thrown 

That mountain as his garden-mould high raised 

Upon the rapid current, which, through veins 

Of porous earth with kindly thirst updrawn, 

Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill 

Water'd the garden ; thence united fell 

Down the steep glade, and met the nether 2 flood, 

Which from his darksome passage now appears, 

And now, divided into four main streams, 

Runs diverse,3 wandering many a famous realm, 

And country, whereof here needs no account ; % 

But rather to tell how, if Art could tell, ,^ . 

How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks, 

1 sliaggy, as rough with trees and shrubs, as the sides of a beast are with hair. 
2 nether, lower. 3 diverse, in different directions. 



60 MILTON. 

Rolling on orient 4 pearl and sands of gold, 
With mazy error under pendant shades 
Ran nectar 5, visiting each plant, and fed 
Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art 
In beds and curious knots, hut Nature hoon 
Pourd forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, 
Both where the morning sun first warmly smote 
The open field, and where the unpierced shade 
Imbrown'd the noontide bow'rs : thus was this place 
A happy rural seat of various view ; — 
Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm, 
Others whose fruit, burnish' d with golden rind, 
Hung amiable, Hesperian fables 6 true, 
If true, here only, and of delicious taste : 
Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks 
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed, 
Or palmy hillock ; or the flowery lap 
Of some irriguous? valley spread her store, 
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose : 
Another side, umbrageous grots and caves 
Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine, 
Lays forth her purple grapes and gently creeps 
Luxuriant ; meanwhile murmuring waters fall 
Down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake, 
That to the fringed bank with myrtle crown d, 
Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams. 
The birds their quire apply ; airs, vernal airs, 
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune 
The trembling leaves, while universal Pan 8 , 
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, 
Led on the eternal Spring 



4 orient, eastern : like what is produced in eastern countries. 

5 nectar, nectar was fabled by the pagans to be the drink of the gods. 

6 Hesperian fables ; fables respecting the gardens of the Hesperides, in 

which the apples were said to be of gold. 

7 irriguous, watered. 

8 Pan, the god of the country, or of nature, in the ancient mythologies. 



MILTON. 61 

THE PREPARATIONS FOR THE BATTLE OF 
THE ANGELS. • 

So spake the Sovereign Voice, and clouds began 

To darken all the hill, and smoke to roll 

In dusky wreaths, reluctant flames, the sign 

Of wrath awaked ; nor with less dread the loud 

Ethereal trumpet from on high 'gan blow : 

At which command the Powers militant l 

That stood for Heaven, in mighty quadrate 2 join'd, 

Of union irresistible, moved on 

In silence their bright legions 3, to the sound 

Of instrumental harmony, that breathed 

Heroic ardour to adventurous deeds 

Under their godlike leaders, in the cause 

Of God and his Messiah. On they move 

Indissolubly firm ; nor obvious 4 hill, 

Nor straitening vale, nor wood, nor stream, divides 

Their perfect ranks ; for high above the ground 

Their march was, and the passive air upbore 

Their nimble tread : as when the total kind 

Of birds, in orderly array on wing, 

Came summon' d over Eden to receive 

Their names of thee ; so over many a tract 

Of heaven they march' d, and many a province wide, 

Tenfold the length of this terrene 5 : at last 

Far in the horizon to the north appear d 

From skirt to skirt a fairy region, stretch' d 

In battailous 6 aspect, and nearer view 

Bristled with upright beams innumerable 

Of rigid spears, and helmets throng' d, and shields 

Various, with boastful argument portray' d, 

The banded powers of Satan hasting on 

With furious expedition. 

1 militant, warlike, prepared, for war. 4 obvious, intervening, lying in their way. 

2 quadrate, square. 5 terrene, the earth. 

3 legions, batcaiions or regiments. 6 battailous, warlike, threateninghattle. 



62 MILTON. 

EVE'S LAMENT ON HER EXPULSION FROM 
PARADISE. 

O unexpected stroke, worse than of Death ! 

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ? thus leave 

Thee, native soil ! these happy walks and shades, 

Fit haunt of Gods ? where I had hope to spend, 

Quiet though sad, the respite of that day 

That must he mortal to us both. O flowers, 

That never will in other climate grow, 

My early visitation, and my last 

At even, which I bred up with tender hand 

From the first opening bud, and gave ye names ! 

Who now shall rear ye to the Sun, or rank 

Your tribes, and water from th' ambrosial 1 fount ? 

Thee lastly, nuptial bower ! by me adorned 

With what to sight or smell was sweet ! from thee 

How shall I part, and whither wander down 

Into a lower world ; to this obscure 

And wild ? how shall we breathe in other air 

Less pure, accustom' d to immortal fruits ? 



THE SUBSIDING OF THE WATERS OF THE DELUGE. 

He look'd and saw the ark hull 2 on the flood, 
Which now abated ; for the clouds were fled, 
Driven by a keen north wind, that, blowing dry, 
Wrinkled the face of Deluge, as decayed ; 
And the clear Sun on his wide watery glass 
Gazed hot, and of the fresh wave largely drew, 
As after thirst ; which made their flowing shrink 
From standing lake to tripping ebb, that stole 
With soft foot towards the Deep ; who now had stopt 

1 ambrosial, salutary, delicious, like ambrosia, the fabled food of the pagan gods. 

2 hull, fall to one side as a ship run aground. 



MILTON. 63 

His sluices, as the Heaven his windows shut. 
The ark no more now floats, but seems on ground, 
Fast on the top of some high mountain fix'd. 
And now the tops of hills, as rocks, appear ; 
With clamour thence the rapid currents drive, 
Towards the retreating sea, their furious tide. 
Forthwith from out the ark a raven flies, 
And after him, the surer messenger, 
A dove sent forth once and again to spy 
Green tree or ground, whereon his foot may light : 
The second time returning, in his bill 
An olive-leaf he brings, pacific sign : 
Anon, dry ground appears, and from his ark 
The ancient Sire descends, with all his train. 
Then with uplifted hands, and eyes devout, 
Grateful to Heaven, over his head beholds 
A dewy cloud, and in the cloud a bow 
Conspicuous with three listed l colours gay, 
Betokening peace from God, and covenant new. 



SAMSON'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF HIS SIGHT. 

O loss of sight, of thee I most complain ! 

Blind among enemies, O worse than chains, 

Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 

Light, the prime 2 work of God, to mes extinct, 

And all her various objects of delight 

Annull'd, which might in part my grief have eased, 

Inferior to the vilest now become 

Of man or worm ; the vilest here excel me ; 

They creep, yet see ; I, dark in light, exposed 

To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, 

Within doors, or without, still as a fool, 

1 listed, striped. 2 prime, first. 



64 MILTON. 

In power of others, never in my own ; 

Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. 

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, 

Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 

Without all hope of day ! 

O first created Beam, and thou great Word, 

Let there be light, and light was over all ; 

Why am I- thus bereaved thy prime decree ? 

The sun to me is dark 

And silent as the moon, 

When she deserts the night, > 

Hid in her vacant interlunar cave* ! 

Since light so necessary is to life, 

And almost life itself, if it be true 

That light is in the soul, 

She all in every part ; why was the sight 

To such a tender ball as th' eye confined, 

So obvious and so easy to be quench' d ? 

And not, as feeling, through all parts diffused, 

That she might look, at will, through every pore ? 

Then had I not been thus exiled from light, 

As in the land of darkness, yet in light, 

To live a life half dead, a living death, 

And buried ; but, O yet more miserable ! 

Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave ; 

Buried, yet not exempt, 

By privilege of death and burial, 

From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs : 

But made hereby obnoxious 2 more 

To all the miseries of life, 

Life in captivity 

Among inhuman foes. 



1 Hid in her vacant interlunar cave! During that part of the month in which 
the dark side of the moon is turned to the earth. 
2 Obnoxious, exposed to. 



MILTON. 65 

DESCRIPTION OF A LADY SINGING, 

[From the Masque of Comus.] i 

Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould 
Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment ? 
Sure something holy lodges in that breast, 
And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testify his hidden residence. 
How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night, 
At every fall smoothing the raven-down 
Of darkness, till it smiled ! I have oft heard 
My mother Circe l with the Sirens 2 three, 
Amidst the flowery-kirtled 3 Naiades 4 , 
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs ; 
Who, as they sung, would take the prison d soul, 
And lap it in Elysium : Scylla 5 wept, 
And chid her barking waves into attention, 
And fell Charybdis 5 murmur d soft applause : 
Yet they in pleasing slumber lull'd the sense, 
And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself; 
But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
I never heard till now. 



1 Circe, a celebrated enchantress in the heathen mythology. She was fabled 

to be the daughter of the Sun. 

2 Sirens, the Sirens were nymphs fabled to inhabit an island in the western 

Mediterranean; so sweet was their song, that mariners who heard it, 
forgot home and all its endearments, and steering direct to the island 
were wrecked on its rocks. 

3 flowery-kirtled, wearing 'a kirtle or gown embroidered with flowers. 

4 Naiades, nymphs of the sea. 

5 Scylla and Charybdis, the one was a rock, and the other a whirlpool, in the 

straits of Messina, between Sicily and Italy, that proved very destructive 
to the early voyagers. They were fabled by the poets to be cruel monsters 
that devoured mariners. 



66 MILTON. 

DESCRIPTION OF A STORM. 

[From the Paradise Regained.] 

And either tropic * now 

'Gan thunder, and both ends of heaven ; the clouds, 

From many a horrid rift abortive 2 , pour'd 

Fierce rain with lightning mix'd, water with fire 

In ruin reconciled : nor slept the winds 

Within their stony caves, but rush'd abroad 

From the four hinges of the world, and fell 

On the vex'd wilderness, whose tallest pines, 

Though rooted deep as high, and sturdiest oaks, 

Bow'd their stiff necks, loaded with stormy blasts, 

Or torn up sheer. Ill wast thou shrouded then, 

O patient Son of God, yet only stood' st 

Unshaken ! Nor yet staid the terror there ; 

Infernal ghosts and hellish furies round 

Environ d thee, some howl'd, some yell'd, some shriek' d, 

Some bent at thee their fiery darts, while thou 

Sat'st unappall'd in calm and sinless peace ! 

Thus pass'd the night so foul, till morning fair 

Came forth, with pilgrim steps, in amice 3 gray ; 

Who with her radiant finger still' d the roar 

Of thunder, chased the clouds, and laid the winds, 

And grisly spectres, which the fiend had raised 

To tempt the Son of God with terrors dire. 

And now the sun with more effectual beams 

Had cheer d the face of earth, and dried the wet 

From drooping plant or dropping tree ; the birds, 

Who all things now behold more fresh and green, 

After a night of storm so ruinous, 

Clear d up their choicest notes in bush and spray, 

To gratulate the sweet return of morn. 

1 tropic, the tropics are imaginary 2 abortive, springing from. 

lines that mark the limits of the 3 amice, a robe or garment anciently 
ecliptic, or apparent annual path of worn by the clergy, 

the sun through the heavens. 



67 



JOHN DRYDEN, 

Almost the chief of the poets of artificial life, was born in Northampton- 
shire, A.D. 1631 . Having passed through the University of Cambridge, 
he came to London, and became known as a poet by the publication of 
his Heroic Stanzas on the death of Oliver Cromwell. When Charles the 
Second was restored to the throne of his ancestors, Dryden changed his 
politics, and became the first in the rank of courtly poets. To please the 
monarch he composed his celebrated satire Absalom and Achitophel ; in 
which the incidents of Absalom's rebellion against David are ingeniously 
applied to the opposition Charles the Second experienced from his natural 
son, the duke of Monmouth, and his intriguing adviser, the earl of Shaftes- 
bury. It would be well if this was the only instance of the poet's 
courtly complaisance ; unfortunately he polluted his works with gross 
licentiousness, to gratify a corrupt monarch, and an immoral court ; and 
after the accession of James the Second, he turned Roman-catholic to 
please the king. At the revolution he was consequently treated with 
neglect but too well merited, and was forced literally to write for bread. 
A lamentable example of the inefficiency of talent, unsupported by 
principle, to procure comfort or respectability. He died, A.D. 1700, and 
was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

Dryden's poetry is eloquent declamation in majestic verse ; he possesses 
more invention than fancy, more wit than humour. He rarely approaches 
the sublime, but in his verses there is a sustained march of elevation, 
and a force of character, which atone for the deficiency. His style is 
thoroughly English; his diction grand and elegant; his versification 
rich, varied and sounding, rarely degenerating into pompous bombast. 



DAVID'S FRIENDS. 

[From the Absalom and Achitophel.] 

Now what relief can righteous David 1 bring ? 
How fatal 'tis to he so good a king ! 
Friends he has few, so high the madness grows ; 
Who dare be such, must he the people's foes. 
Yet some there were, even in the worst of days ; 
Some let me name, and naming is to praise. 

1 See the Life of Dryden. 

E 2 



68 DRYDEN. 

In this short file Barzillai2 first appears ; 
Barzillai, crown d with honour and with years. 
Long since, the rising rebels he withstood, 
In regions waste, beyond the Jordan's flood 3 : 
Unfortunately brave to buoy the state ; 
But sinking underneath his masters fate 4 : 
In exile with his godlike prince he mourn'd ; 
For him he suffer'd, and with him return'd. # 
The court he practised, not the courtiers art : 
Large was his wealth, but larger was his heart; 
Which well the noblest objects knew to choose, 
The fighting warrior, and recording Muse. 
His bed could once a fruitful issue boast ; 
Now more than half a father's name is lost. 
His eldest hope 5 , with every grace adorn d ;. 
By me, so Heaven will have it, always mourn'd. 
Oh narrow circle, but of power divine, 
Scanted in space, but perfect in thy line ! 
By sea, by land, thy matchless worth was known, 
Arms thy delight, and war was all thy own : 
Thy force, infused, the fainting Tyrians 6 propp'd : 
And haughty Pharaoh 7 found his fortune stopp'd. 
Oh ancient honour ! Oh unconquer'd hand, 
Whom foes unpunish'd never could withstand ! 
But Israel 8 was unworthy of his name : 
Short is the date of all immoderate fame. 
It looks as Heaven our ruin had design'd, 
And durst not trust thy fortune and thy mind. 

2 Barzillai, James the great duke of Onnond, one of the most eminent and 

virtuous of English statesmen, and as remarkable for his devoted loyalty 
as his eminent abilities. 

3 regions [waste, beyond the Jordan's flood, Ireland ; where Ormond was the 

moat conspicuous among the supporters of the royal cause. 

4 his master's fate, the martyrdom of Charles the First. 

5 his eldest ■ hope, the earl of Ossory, eldest son to the duke of Ormond, a 

young man eminently distinguished by his spirit and bravery, died in the 
very prime of life. 

6 Tyrians, the Dutch, in whose army Ossory served. 

7 Pharaoh, the king of France. 8 Israel, England. 



DRYDEN. 69 

Now, free from earth, thy disencumber' d soul 

Mounts up, and leaves behind the clouds and starry pole. 

From thence thy kindred legions may'st thou bring, 

To aid the guardian angel of thy king. 

Here stop, my Muse, here cease thy painful flight ; 

No pinions can pursue immortal height : 

Tell good Barzillai thou canst sing no more, 

And tell thy soul she should have fled before : 

Or fled she with his life, and left this verse 

To hang on her departed patron s hearse ? 

Now take thy steepy flight from heaven, and see 
If thou canst find on earth another he : 
Another he would be too hard to find ; 
See then, whom thou canst see not far behind. 
Zadoc 9 the priest, whom, shunning power and place, 
His lowly mind advanced to David's grace. 
With him the Sagan of Jerusalem 10 , 
Of hospitable soul, and noble stem ; 
Him n of the western dome, whose weighty sense 
Flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence. 
The prophets' sons 12 , by such example led, 
To learning and to loyalty were bred : 
For colleges on bounteous kings depend, 
And never rebel was to arts a friend. 
To these succeed the pillars of the laws ; 
Who be^st can plead, and best can judge a cause. 
Next them a train of loyal peers ascend ; 
Sharp-judging Adriel 13 , the Muses' friend, 
Himself a Muse: in Sanhedrim's 14 debate 
True to his prince, but not a slave of state ; 



9 Zadoc, Sancroft, archbishop of Canterbury ; a prelate eminently distinguished 

by his great abilities, and still more by Iris unaffected piety and unswerv- 
ing integrity. 

10 the Sagan of Jerusalem, Dr. Compton, bishop of London. 

1 1 Dr. Dolben, bishop of Rochester and dean of Westminster. 

12 prophets' sons, the younger clergymen. 

13 Adriel, the earl of Mulgrave, a distinguished parliamentary orator. 

14 Sanhedrim, the parliament. 



70 DRYDEN. 

Whom David's love with honours did adorn, 
That from his disobedient son were torn. 
Jotham 15 of piercing wit and pregnant thought ; 
Endued by nature, and by learning taught, 
To move assemblies ; who but only tried 
The worse awhile, then chose the better side ; 
Nor chose alone, but turn'd the balance too ; 
So much the weight of one brave man can do. 
Hushai 16 , the friend of David in distress ; 
In public storms of manly steadfastness : 
By foreign treaties he inform' d his youth, 
And join' d experience to his native truth. 
His frugal care supplied the wanting throne ; 
Frugal for that, but bounteous of his own : 
'Tis easy conduct when exchequers flow, 
But hard the task to manage well the low : 
For sovereign power is too depress'd or high, 
When kings are forced to sell, or crowds to buy. 

Indulge one labour more, my weary Muse, 
For Amiel !?: who can Amiel' s praise refuse ? 
Of ancient race by birth, but nobler yet 
In his own worth, and without title great : 
The Sanhedrim long time as chief he ruled ; 
Their reason guided, and their passion coord : 
So dext'rous was he in the crowns defence, 
So form'd to speak a loyal nations sense, 
That as their band was Israel's tribes in small, 
So fit was he to represent them all. 
Now rasher charioteers the seat ascend, 
Whose loose careers his steady skill commend. 
They, like th' unequal ruler of the day, 
Misguide the seasons, and mistake the way, 
While he withdrawn, at their mad labour smiles, 
And safe enjoys the sabbath of his toils. 

15 Jotham, the marquis of Halifax, a celebrated statesman and poet. 

16 Hushai, the earl of Rochester, who by no means merited the high character 

given him by the poet. He was a heartless profligate. 

17 Amiel, Mr. Seymour, speaker of the house of commons. 



DRYDEN. 71 

A DREAM. 

Two friends or brothers, with devout intent, 
On some far pilgrimage together went. 
It happen' d so that, when the sun was down, 
They just arrived by twilight at a town: 
That day had been the baiting of a bull, 
'Twas at a feast, and every inn so full 
That no void room in chamber, or on ground, 
And but one sorry bed was to be found ; 
And that so little, it would hold but one, 
Though 'till this hour they never lay alone. 

So they were forced to part; one stay'd behind, 
His fellow sought what lodging he could find : 
At last he found a stall where oxen stood, 
And that he rather chose than lie abroad. 
'Twas in a farther yard without a door; 
But, for his ease, well Utter' d was the floor. 

His fellow, who the narrow bed had kept, ] 
Was weary, and without a rocker slept : 
Supine 1 he snored ; but in the dead of night 
He dreamt his friend appear d before his sight, 
Who, with a ghastly look and doleful cry, 
Said, Help me, brothpr, or this night I die : 
Arise and help, before all help be vain, 
Or in an ox's stall I shall be slain. 

Roused from his rest, he waken d in a start, 
Shivering with horror, and with aching heart ; 
At length to cure himself by reason tries ; 
'Tis but a dream, and what are dreams but lies ? 
So thinking, changed his side, and closed his eyes. 
His dream returns ; his friend appears again : 
The murderers come, now help, or I am slain. 
Twas but a vision still, and visions are but vain. 

1 supine, on his back. 



72 DRYDEN. 

He dreamt the third : hut now his friend appear'd 

Pale, naked, pierced with wounds, with blood besmear d : 

Thrice warnd, awake, said he, relief is late, 

The deed is done ; but thou revenge my fate : 

Tardy of aid, unseal thy heavy eyes, 

Awake, and with the dawning day arise : 

Take to the western gate thy ready way, 

For by that passage they my corpse convey : 

My corpse is in a tumbril laid, among 

The filth and ordure, and enclosed with dung : 

That cart arrest, and raise a common cry ; 

For sacred 2 hunger of my gold I die : 

Then show'd his grisly wound : and last he drew 

A piteous sigh, and took a long adieu. 

The frighted friend arose by break of day, 
And found the stall where late his fellow lay. 
Then of his impious host inquiring more, 
Was answer d that his guest was gone before : 
Muttering, he went, said he, by morning light, 
And much complaind of his ill rest by night. 
This raised suspicion in the pilgrim's mind, 
Because all hosts are of an evil kind, 
And oft to share the spoils with robbers join'd. 

His dream confirm' d his thought : with troubled look, 
Straight to the western gate his way he took ; 
There, as his dream foretold, a cart he found, 
That carried compost forth to dung the ground. 
This when the pilgrim saw, he stretch' d his throat, 
And cried out Murder, with a yelling note. 
My murder' d fellow in this cart lies dead, 
Vengeance and justice on the villain s head. 
Ye magistrates, who sacred law dispense, 
On you I call to punish this offence. 
f The word thus given, within a little space, 
The mob came roaring out, and throng' d the place. 

2 sacred, here means, accursed. 



DRYDEN. 73 

All in a trice they cast the cart to ground, 

And in the dung the murder d body found ; 

Though breathless, warm, and reeking from the wound. 

Good Heaven, whose darling attribute we find 

Is boundless grace, and mercy to mankind, 

Abhors the cruel ; and the deeds of night 

By wondrous ways reveals in open light : 

Murder may pass unpunish'd for a time, 

But tardy justice will o'ertake the crime. 

And oft a speedier pain the guilty feels : 

The hue and cry of heaven pursues him at the heels, 

Fresh from the fact, as in the present case, 

The' criminals are seized upon the place ; 

Carter and host confronted face to face. 

Stiff in denial, as the law appoints, 

On engines they distend their tortured joints : 

So was confession forced, th* offence was known, 

And public justice on th' offenders done. 



VENI CREATOR.! 

Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
The world's foundations first were laid, 
Come visit every pious mind ; 
Come pour thy joys on human kind ; 
From sin and sorrow set us free, 
And make thy temples worthy thee. 

O source of uncreated light, 
The Father's promised Paraclete 2 ! 
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire, 
Come and thy sacred unction bring 
To sanctify us while we sing. 

1 " Come Creator ;" the title is taken from the first two words of the Latin hymn. 

2 Paraclete, a Greek word, signifying " comforter."^ 



74 DRYDEN. 

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 
Rich in thy sevenfold energy ! 
Thou strength of His almighty hand, 
Whose power does heaven and earth command. 
♦ Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 

Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, 
And crown st thy gift with eloquence, 

Refine and purge our earthly parts ; 
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts : 
Our frailties help, our vice control, 
Submit the senses to the soul ; 
And when rebellious they are grown, 
Then lay thine hand, and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 
And, lest our feet should step astray, 
Protect and guide us in the way. 

Make us eternal truths receive, 
And practise all that we believe : 
Give us thyself, that we may see 
The Father, and the Son, by thee. 

Immortal honour, endless fame, 
Attend the Almighty Father's name : 
The Saviour Son be glorified, 
Who for lost man's redemption died : 
And equal adoration be, 
Eternal Paraclete, to thee ! 



75 



THOMAS PARNELL, 

Was born in Dublin, A. D. 1679 ; he was educated in the Irish Univer- 
sity, and having taken orders, received the archdeaconry of Clogher. He 
was intimate with all the illustrious writers usually termed " the wits of 
Queen Anne's age," and was a contributor to the Spectator. He died 
at Chester, on his way to Ireland, A. D. 1717. 

His poems are distinguished by ease, sprightliness and melodious ver- 
sification, but still more so for their elegant sentiments and pure morality. 



THE HERMITl. 

Far in a wild, unknown to public view, 
From youth to age, a reverend Hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : 
Remote from men, with God he pass'd his days, 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion rose ; 
That Vice should triumph, Virtue Vice obey, 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway : 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenoiir of his soul is lost : 
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest 
Calm nature's image on its watery breast, 
Down bend the hanks, the trees depending grow, 
And skies beneath with answering colours glow : 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, 
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, 
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, 
To find if books, or swains, report it right, 

1 This beautiful poem is founded on an Arabic legend, to which an allusion is 
made in the Koran. The circumstances of the original are nearly the same as 
those detailed by Parnell. 



76 PARNELL. 

(For yet by swains 2 alone the world he knew, 
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew,) 
He quits his cell : the pilgrim staff he bore, 
And fix'd the scallop 3 in his hat before ; 
Then with the sun a rising journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, 
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 
But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, 
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. 
Then near approaching, " Father, hail ! " he cried, 
And "Hail, my son!" the reverend sire replied ; 
Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, 
And talk of various kind deceived the road ; 
Till each with other pleased, and loth to part, 
While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey ; 
Nature in silence bid the world repose ; 
When near the road a stately palace rose : 
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, 
Whose verdure crown' d their sloping sides of grass. 
It chanced the noble master of the dome 
Still made his house the wandering stranger's home : 
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive : the liveried servants wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. 
The table groans with costly piles of food, 
And all is more than hospitably good. 

2 swains, peasants. 

3 scallop, the scallop-shell was worn anciently in the hat by pilgrims. 



PARNELL. 77 

Then led to rest, the clay's long toil they drown, 
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day, 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs 4 play : 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres 5 the breezes creep, 
And shake the neighbouring wood, to banish sleep. 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call : 
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall ; 
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, 
Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. 
Then pleased and thankful, from the porch they go ; 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe ; 
His cup was vanish'd ; for in secret guise 
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. 

As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
Glistening and basking in the summer ray, 
Disorder d stops to shun the danger near, 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear ; 
So seem'cl the sire ; when, far upon the road, 
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. 
He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart, 
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask, to part : 
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard 
That generous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, 
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds ; 
A sound in air presaged approaching rain, 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain, 
Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat, 
To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, 
And strong, and 'large, and unimproved around ; 
It's owner's temper, timorous and severe, 
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there, 

4 zephyrs, gentle breezes, literally western winds. ' 

5 parterres, level plots of ground planted with, shrubs and flo.vers. 



78 PARNELL. 

As near the miser s heavy doors they drew, 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began, 
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran. 
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, 
Driv'n by the wind, and batter' d by the rain. 
At length some pity warm'd the master's breast 
(Twas then his threshold first received a guest) ; 
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, 
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair ; 
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, 
And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls. 
Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine, 
(Each hardly granted) served them both to dine ; 
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, 
A ready warning bid them part in peace. 

With still remark the pondering hermit view'd, 
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 
And why should such, within himself he cried, 
Lack the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? 
But what new marks of wonder soon took place, 
In every settling feature of his face, 
When from his vest the young companion bore 
That cup the generous landlord own'd before, 
And paid profusely with the precious bowl, 
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 
The sun emerging opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smelling leaves display, 
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day ; 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought 
With all the travel 6 of uncertain thought ; 

6 travel, labour, pain. 



PARNELL. 79 

His partner's acts without their cause appear, 
'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here : 
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky, 
Again the wanderers want a place to lie ; 
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 
The soil improved around, the mansion neat, 
And neither poorly low, nor idly great : 
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, 
Content, and not for praise hut virtue kind. 
Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, 
Then Mess the mansion, and the master greet : 
Their greeting fair, bestow' d with modest guise, 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies : 

Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 
To Him who gives us all, I yield a part ; 
From Him you come, for Him accept it here, 
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer. 
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread : 
They talk of virtue till the time of bed, 
When the grave household round his hall repair, 
Warned by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. 

At length the world, renew' d by calm repose, 
Was strong for toil, the dappled morn arose ; 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, 
And writhed his neck : the landlord's little pride, 
O strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd, and died. 
Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! 
How look'd our hermit when the fact was done ! 
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part, 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, 
He flies, but trembling, fails to tly with speed. 



80 PARNELL. 

His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay 
Perplex' d with roads, a servant show'd the way : 
A river cross'd the path ; the passage o'er 
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, 
And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. 
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, 
Approach' d the careless guide, and thrust him in ; 
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, 
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 

Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes, 
He bursts the bonds of fear, and madly cries, 
" Detested wretch ! " — But scarce his speech began, 
When the strange partner seem'd no longer man : 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turn'd white, and fiow'd upon his feet ; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air ; 
And wings, whose colours glitter' d on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, 
Sudden he gazed, and wist7 not what to do; 
Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, 

And in a calm his settling temper ends. 

But silence here the beauteous angel broke, 

(The voice of music ravish' d as he spoke) : 
Thy pray'r, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 

In sweet memorial rise before the throne ; 

These charms success in our bright region find, 

And force an angel down to calm thy mind ; 

For this commission'd, I forsook the sky ; 

Nay, cease to kneel, — thy fellow-servant I. 

7 wist, knew. 



PARNELL. 81 

Then know the truth of government divine, 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 

The Maker justly claims that world he made, 
In this the right of Providence is laid; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends 
On using second means to work his ends : 
Tis thus, withdrawn in -state from human eye, 
The Power exerts his attributes on high ; 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 

What strange events can strike with more surprise, 
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes ? 
Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just, 
And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust ! 

The great, vain man, who fared on costly food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine ; 
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 

The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor ; 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And loose from dross the silver runs below. 

Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, 
But now the child half wean'd his heart from God ; 
(Child of his age) for him he lived in pain, 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ? 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 



PARNELL. 

To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, 
(And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow :) 
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 

But now had all his fortune felt a wrack, 
Had that false servant sped in safety back ; 
This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, 
And what a fund of charity would fail ! 
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er, 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more. 

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, 
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. 
Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
The fiery pomp ascending, left to view, 
The prophet gazed, and wish'd to follow too. 

The bending hermit here a prayer begun, 
" Lord ! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done :' 
Then gladly turning, sought his ancient place ; 
And pass'd a life of piety and peace. 



A FAIRY TALE 1. 

(In the ancient English style.) 

In Britain's isle, and Arthur's days, 
When midnight fairies danced the maze 2 , 

Lived Edwin of the green ; 
Edwin, I wis 3, a gentle youth, 
Endow' d with courage, sense, and truth, 

Though badly shaped he'd been. 



1 This tale is founded on an Irish 2 maze, a dance with several windings 
legend, which the poet has greatly and turnings, 

extended and improved. 3 wis, think. 



PARNELL. 83 

.His mountain back mote 4 well be said, 
To measure height against his head, 

And lift itself above : 
Yet spite of all that nature did 
To make his uncouth form forbid, 

This creature dared to love. 

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes, 
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize, 

Could ladies look within ; 
But one sir Topaz dress'd with art, 
And, if a shape could win a heart, 

He had a shape to win. 

Edwin, if right I read my song, 
With slighted passion paced along 

All in the moony light ; 
"Twas near an old enchanted court, 
Where sportive fairies made resort 

To revel out the night. 

His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, 
'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost 

That reach' d the neighbour town ; 
With weary steps he quits the shades, 
Resolved the darkling dome he treads, 

And drops his limbs adown. 

But scant 5 he lays him on the floor, 
When hollow winds remove the door, 

And trembling rocks the ground : 
And, well I ween to count aright, 
At once a hundred tapers light 

On all the walls around. 

Now sounding tongues assail his ear, 
Now sounding feet approachen 6 near, 
And now the sounds increase : 

mote, might. 5 scant, scarcely. 6 approachen, approached. 

f2 



34 PARNELL. 

And, from the corner where he lay, 
He sees a train profusely gay 

Come prankling 7 o'er the place. 

But (trust me, gentles !) never yet 
Was dight 8 a masquing half so neat, 

Or half so rich before ; 
The country lent the sweet perfumes, 
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes, 

The town its silken store. 

Now while he gazed, a gallant drest 
In flaunting 9 robes above the rest, 

With awful accent cried ; 
" What mortal of a wretched mind, 
" Whose sighs infect the balmy wind, 

" Has here presumed to hide ?" 

At this the swain, whose vent'rous soul 
No fears of magic art control, 

Advanced in open sight ; 
" Nor have I cause of dread," he said, 
" Who view, by no presumption led, 

" Your revels of the night. 

" ' Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, 
" Which made my steps unweeting 10 rove 

" Amid the nightly dew." 
" 'Tis well ;" the gallant cries again, 
" We fairies never injure men 

" Who dare to tell us true. 

" Exalt thy love-dejected heart, 
" Be mine the task, or e'er we part, 

" To make thee grief resign ; 
" Now take the pleasure of thy chance ; 
" Whilst I with Mab, my partner, dance, 

" Be little Mable thine." 

7 prankling, advancing merrily. 9 flaunting, gaudy. 

3 dight, decked. 10 unweeting, unconscious. 



PARNELL. S; 

He spoke, and all a sudden there 
Light music floats in wanton air ; 

The monarch leads the queen : 
The rest their fairy partners found : 
And Mable trimly tript the ground 

With Edwin of the green. 

The dancing past, the board was laid, 
And siker u such a feast was made, 

As heart and lip desire ; 
Withouten hands the dishes fly, 
The glasses with a wish come nigh, 

And with a wish retire. 

But, now to please the fairy king, 
Full every deal 12 they laugh and sing, 

And antic feats devise ; 
Some wind and tumble like an ape, 
And other some transmute their shape 

In Edwin's wondering eyes. 

Till one at last, that Robin 13 hight^, 
Renown d for pinching maids by night, 

Has hent 15 him up aloof 16 : 
And full against the beam he flung, 
Where by the back the youth he hung 

To sprawl unneath 17 the roof. 

From thence, " Reverse my charm," he cries, 
" And let it fairly now suffice, 

" The gambol has been shown." 
But Oberon 18 answers with a smile, 
" Content thee, Edwin, for a while, 

" The vantage 19 is thine own. " 

11 Sifter, surely. 14 Jiight, named. 

12 deal, part. 15 hent, seized. 

13 Robin, Puck or Robin Goodfellow, 16 aloof, to a short distance, or high. 

was a fairy remarkable for play- 17 unneath, underneath. 

ing waggish tricks, in the .oid 18 Oberon, the king of the fairies. 

superstitious tales. 19 vantage, advantage. 



86 PARNELL. 

Here ended all the phantom-play ; 
They smelt the fresh approach of day, 

And heard a cock to crow ; 
The whirling wind that bore the crowd 
Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud, 

To warn them all to go. 

Then, screaming all at once, they fly, 
And all at once the tapers die ; 

Poor Edwin falls to floor : 
Forlorn his state, and dark the place, 
Was never wight 20 in such a case, 

Through all the land before. 

But soon as Dan Apollo rose, 
Full jolly creature home he goes, 

He feels his back the less ; 
His honest tongue and steady mind 
Had rid him of the lump behind, 

Which made him want success. 

With lusty livelyhed he talks, 
He seems a-dancing as he walks, 

His story soon took wind ; 
And beauteous Edith sees the youth, 
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, 

Without a bunch behind. 

The story told, Sir Topaz moved, 
The youth of Edith erst 21 approved, 

To see the revel scene : 
At close of eve he leaves his home, 
And wends 22 to find the ruind dome, 

All on the gloomy plain. 

As there he bides &, it so befell, 
The wind came rustling down a dell, 



20 wight, a person. . 22 wends, goes. 

21 erst, formerly. 23 bides, remains 



PARNELL. 87 

A shaking seized the wall ; 
Up sprang the tapers as before, 
The fairies bragly 24 foot the floor, 

And music fills the hall. 

But certes 25 , sorely sunk with wo, 
Sir Topaz sees the elfin 26 show, 

His spirits in him die ; 
When Oberon cries, " A man is near ; 
A mortal passion, cleped 2 7 fear, 

Hangs nagging in the sky." 

With that, Sir Topaz, hapless youth ! 
In accents faltering, ay for ruth 28 , 

Entreats them pity graunt; 
For als 29 he been a mister wight 30 , 
Betray d, by wandering in the night, 

To tread the circled haunt. 

" Ah, losel3l vile ! " at once they roar : 
" And little skill'd of fairy lore 32 , 

" Thy cause to come we know : 
" Now has thy kestrel 33 courage fell ; 
" And fairies, since a he you tell, 

" Are free to work thee wo." 

Then Will, who bears the wispy fire, 
To trail the swains among the mire, 

The caitiff upward flung ; 
There, like a tortoise in a shop, 
He dangled from the chamber-top, 

Where whilome 34 Edwin hung. 

The revel now proceeds apace, 
Deftly 3 5 they frisk it o'er the place, 

24 bragly, proudly. 30 mister wight, a person of the same 

25 certes, certainly. kind (as Edwin). 

26 elfin, fairy ; the fairies are also 31 losel, a worthless fellow. 

called elves. 32 lore, learning. 

27 cleped, or ycleped, named, called. 33 kestrel, dastardly. 

28 ruth, mercy. 34 whilome, formerly. 

29 als, also. 35 deftly, neatly. 



8 PARNELL. 

They sit, they drink, and eat ; 
The time with frolic mirth beguile, 
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while, 

Till all the rout retreat. 

By this, the stars began to wink ; 
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink, 

And down y-drops the knight : 
For never spell, by fairy laid 
With strong enchantment, bound a glade 36 

Beyond the length of night. 

Chill, dark, alone, adreed 3 7, he lay, 
Till up the welkin 38 rose the day, 

Then deem'd the dole 3 ^ was o'er ; 
But wot 40 ye well his harder lot ? 
His seely 41 back the bunch had got, 

Which Edwin lost afore. 

This tale a Sibyl 42 nurse ared 43 ; 
She softly stroked my youngling head, 

And, when the tale was done, 
" Thus some are born, my son," she cries, 
" With base impediments to rise ; 

" And some are born with none. 

" But virtue can itself advance 

" To what the favourite fools of chance 

" By fortune seem design d ; 
" Virtue can gain the odds of fate, 
" And from itself shake off the weight 

" Upon th 1 unworthy mind." 

36 glade, a lawn. 41 seely, silly, foolish. 

37 adreed, terrified. 42 Sibyl, aged, like the Sibyl, an old 

38 welkin, sky. woman famed for prophetic 

39 dole, grief, pain. skill. 

40 wot, know. 43 ared, related as advice. 



89 



MATTHEW PRIOR 

Was born in London, A. D. 1664. He was of humble parentage ; but 
through the kindness of the Earl of Dorset, he received the advantages 
of a University education at Cambridge ; he was afterwards introduced 
into political life, and held several important offices in the state. He 
died A. D. 1721. 

Prior's poetry is harmonious, and rich in all the graces of diction and 
imagery ; it is deficient in warmth and feeling. 



CHARITY. 

A Paraphrase on 1 Cor. xiii. 



Did sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, 
Than ever man pronounced, or angel sung ; 
Had I all knowledge, human and divine, 
That thought can reach, or science can define ; 
And had I power to give that knowledge birth, 
In all the speeches of the babbling earth ; 
Did Shadrach's £eal my glowing breast inspire, 
To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire ; 
Or had I faith like that which Israel saw, 
When Moses gave them miracles and law ; 
Yet, gracious Charity ! indulgent guest, 
Were not thy power exerted in my breast, 
Those speeches would send up unheeded prayer, 
That scorn of life would be but wild despair ; 
A cymbal's sound were better than my voice ; 
My faith were form, my eloquence were noise. 

Charity ! decent, modest, easy, kind, 
Softens the high, and rears the abject mind; 
Knows, with just reins and gentle hand, to guide 
Betwixt vile shame and arbitrary pride. 
Not soon provoked, she easily forgives, 
And much she suffers, as she much believes. 



90 PRIOR. 

Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives ; 
She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives ; 
Lays the rough paths of peevish nature even, 
And opens in each heart a little heaven. 

Each other gift which God on man bestows, 
Its proper bounds and due restriction knows ; 
To one fix'd purpose dedicates its power, 
And, finishing its act, exists no more. 
Thus, in obedience to what Heaven decrees, 
Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall cease : 
But lasting Charity's more ample sway, 
JNor bound by time, nor subject to decay, 
In happy triumph shall for ever live, 
And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive. 

As through the artist's intervening glass, 
Our eye observes the distant planets pass, 
A little we discover, but allow 
That more remains unseen than art can show ; 
So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve 
(Its feeble eye intent on things above), 
High as we may, we lift our reason up, 
By Faith directed, and confirm'd by~ Hope ; 
Yet are we able only to survey 
Dawnings of beams and promises of day. 
Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight, 
Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. 

But soon the mediate l clouds shall be dispell' d, 
The Sun shall soon be face to face beheld, 
In all his robes, with all his glory on, 
Seated, sublime, on his meridian throne. 

Then constant Faith and holy Hope shall die, 
One lost in certainty and one in joy ; 
Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity, 
Triumphant sister, greatest of the three, 

1 mediate, intervening. 



PRIOR. 91 

Thy office and thy nature still the same, 
Lasting thy lamp, and unconsumed thy flame, 

Shalt still survive 

Shalt stand before the host of Heaven confess' d, 
For ever blessing, and for ever bless'd. 



SOLOMON'S REFLECTIONS ON HUMAN LIFE. 

Amass'd in man, there justly is beheld, 
What through the whole creation has excell'd : 
The life and growth of plants, of beasts the sense, 
The angel's forecast and intelligence : 
Say from these glorious seeds what harvest flows, 
Recount our blessings, and compare our woes. 
In its true light let clearest reason see 
The man dragg'd out to act, and forced to be ; 
His tender eye, by too direct a ray, 
Wounded, and flying from unpractised day ; 
His heart assaulted by invading air, 
And beating fervent to the vital war ; 
To his young sense how various forms appear, 
That strike his wonder, and excite his fear : 
By his distortions he reveals his pains ; 
He by his tears and by his sighs complains ; 
Till time and use assist the infant wretch, 
By broken words and rudiments of speech, 
His wants in plainer characters to show, 
And paint more perfect figures of his woe ; 
Condemn'd to sacrifice his childish years 
To babbling ignorance, and to empty fears ; 
.To pass the riper period of his age, 
Acting his part upon a crowded stage ; 
To lasting toils exposed, and endless cares, 
To open dangers, and to secret snares ; 



92 PRIOR. 

To malice, which the vengeful foe intends, 
And the more dangerous love of seeming friends. 
His deeds examined by the people's will, 
Prone to forget the good, and blame the ill ; 
Or sadly censured in their cursed debate, 
Who, in the scorner's or the judge's seat, 
Dare to condemn the virtue which they hate. 
Or, would he rather leave this frantic scene, 
And trees and beasts prefer to courts and men, 
In the remotest wood and lonely grot, 
Certain to meet that worst of evils, Thought ; 
Different ideas to his memory brought, 
Some intricate as are the pathless woods ; 
Impetuous some as the descending floods ; 
With anxious doubts, with raging passions torn, 
No sweet companion near, with whom to mourn ; 
He hears the echoing rock return his sighs, 
And from himself the frighted hermit flies. 

Thus, through what path soe'er of life we rove, 
Rage companies our hate, and grief our love. 
Vex'd with the present moment's heavy gloom, 
Why seek we brightness from the years to come ? 
Disturb'd and broken, like a sick man's sleep, 
Our troubled thoughts to distant prospects leap, 
Desirous still what flies us to o'ertake, 
For hope is but the dream of those that wake ; 
But, looking back, we see the dreadful train 
Of woes anon, which were we to sustain, 
We should refuse to tread the path again ; 
Still adding grief, still counting from the first, 
Judging the latest evils still the worst ; 
And, sadly finding each progressive hour 
Heighten their number, and augment their power, 
Till, by one countless sum of woes opprest, 
Hoary with cares, and ignorant of rest, 



PRIOR. 93 

We find the vital springs relax d and worn, 

CompelVd our common impotence to mourn. 

Thus through the round of age to childhood we return : 

Reflecting find, that naked from the. womb 

We yesterday came forth ; that in the tomb 

Naked again we must to-morrow lie ; 

Born to lament, to labour, and to die. 

^ *t* ¥ -K t* sfc 

Supreme, all-wise, eternal Potentate ! 
Sole Author, sole Disposer of our fate ! 
Enthroned in light and immortality, 
Whom no man fully sees, and none can see ! 
Original of beings ! Power divine ! 
Since that I live, and that I think, is thine I 
Benign Creator ! let thy plastic 2 hand 
Dispose its own effect ; let thy command 
Restore, great Father ! thy instructed son ; 
And in my act may thy great will be done ! 



JOSEPH ADDISON 



Was born A. D. 1672. He was educated at Oxford, where he was emi- 
nently distinguished for his classical attainments. After quitting the 
University, he engaged in public life, and held several high offices under 
different Whig Administrations. He contributed largely to the Tatler, 
a periodical paper, commenced by his friend Sir Richard Steele. Two 
months after the Tatler had ceased, the Spectator was started, and 
Addison wrote the greater part of that highly-popular work. He shared 
also in the Guardian, the Examiner, and the Freeholder. He died 
A. D. 1719. A little before his death, he sent for his step-son, the 
young Earl of Warwick, and, grasping his hand, said, impressively, 
" See with what ease a Christian can die." 

The poetry of Addison is not of a very high order, but his prose 
writings afford the best model of style in our language. 

2 plastic, moulding, forming a soft substance into shape. 



94 ADDISON. 

ODE ON THE CREATION. 

" The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament shewcth his 
handy work." 

The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 

Their great Original proclaim. 

The unwearied sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creators power display, 

And publishes to every land, 

The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale ; 
And nightly, to the listening earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What, though in solemn silence all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ; 
What, though no real voice, nor sound, 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found : 
In reason s ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
For ever singing, as they shine, 
" The hand that made us is divine." 



GRATITUDE TO GOD. 



When all thy mercies, O my God, 

My rising soul surveys ; 
Transported with the view, I'm lost 

In wonder, love, and praise. 



ADDISON. 95 

O, how shall words, with equal warmth, 

The gratitude declare, 
That glows within my ravish' d heart ! 
/ But Thou canst read it there. 

Thy providence my life sustain'd, 

And all my wants redrest, 
When in the silent womb I lay, 

And hung upon the breast. 

To all my weak complaints and cries, 

Thy mercy lent an ear, 
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 

To form themselves in prayer. 

Unnumber'd comforts to my soul 

Thy tender care bestow'd, 
Before my infant heart conceived 

From whence these comforts flow'd. 

When in the slippery paths of youth, 

With heedless steps I ran ; 
Thine arm, unseen, convey' d me safe, 

And led me up to man. 

Through hidden dangers, toils, and death, 

It gently clear d my way ; 
And through the pleasing snares of vice, 

More to be fear'd than they. 

When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou 

With health renew'd my face ; 
And when in sin and sorrow sunk, 

Revived my soul w r ith grace. 

Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss 

Has made my cup run o'er, 
And in a kind and faithful friend 

Has doubled all my store. 



96 ADDISON. 

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts, 
My daily thanks employ ; 

Nor is the least a cheerful heart, 
That tastes those gifts with joy. 

Through every period of my life, 
Thy goodness 111 pursue ; 

And, after death, in distant worlds, 
The glorious theme renew. 

When nature fails, and day and night 
Divide thy works no more, 

My ever-grateful heart, O Lord, 
Thy mercy shall adore. 

Through all eternity to Thee 
A joyful song 111 raise ; 

For, oh ! eternity's too short 
To utter all thy praise ! 



CONFIDENCE IN GOD. 

How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal Wisdom is their guide ; 

Their help, Omnipotence. 

In foreign realms and lands remote, 

Supported by thy care ; 
Through burning realms I pass'd unhurt, 

And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweeten d every soil, 

Mad e every region please ; 
The hoary Alpine hills l it warrnd, 

And smooth 1 d the Tyrrhene seas 2. 

1 Alpine hills. The Alps are mountains on the north of Italy. Qn account of 

their great height, their summits are covered with perpetual snow. 

2 Tyrrhene seas. The Tyrrhene or Tuscan sea, is that part of the Mediterranean 

' lying to the north-west of Italy. 



ADDISON. 97 

Think, O my soul, devoutly think, 

How, with affrighted eyes, 
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep 

In all its horrors rise. 

Contusion dwelt in every face, 

And fear in every heart ; 
When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, 

O'ercame the pilot's art. 

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord, 

Thy mercy set me free ; 
Whilst, in the confidence of prayer. 

My soul took hold on Thee. 

F or though in dreadful whirls we hung, 

High on the hroken wave, 
I knew Thou wert not slow to hear, 

Nor impotent to save. 

The storm was laid, the winds retired, 

Obedient to Thy will : 
The sea, that roar'd at Thy command, 

At Thy command was still. 

In midst of dangers, fears, and death, 

Thy goodness I'll adore ; 
And praise Thee for Thy mercies past, 

And humbly hope for more. 

My life, if Thou preservest my life, 

Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
And death, if death must be my doom, 

Shall join my soul to Thee ! 



98 ADDISON. 

PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII. 

The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 
His presence shall my wants supply, 
And guard me with a watchful eye : 
My noon-day walks He shall attend, 
And all my midnight hours defend. 

When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
Or on the thirsty mountain pant ; 
To fertile vales and dewy meads, 
My weary, wandering steps He leads ; 
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
Amid the verdant landscapes flow. 

Though in the paths of death I tread, 
With gloomy horrors overspread, 
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill, 
For thou, O God, art with me still ; 
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
And guide me through the dreadful shade. 

Though in a bare and rugged way, 
Through devious, lonely wilds I stray, 
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile ; 
The barren wilderness shall smile, 
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd, 
And streams shall murmur all around. 



DIVINE MERCY TO THE PENITENT. 

When, rising from the bed of death, 
O'erwhelrnd with guilt and fear, 

I see my Maker, face to face ; 
O, how shall I appear ! 



ADDISON. 99 

If yet, while pardon may be found, 

And mercy may be sought, 
My heart with inward horror shrinks, 

And shudders at the thought ; 

When Thou, O Lord, shalt stand disclosed 

In majesty severe, 
And sit in judgment on my soul ; 

O, how shall I appear ! 

But Thou hast told the troubled soul, 

Who does her sins lament* 
The timely tribute of her tears 

Shall endless woes prevent. 

Then see the sorrows of my heart, 

Ere yet it be too late ; 
And add my Saviour's dying groans, 

To give those sorrows weight. 

For, never shall my soul despair 

Her pardon to procure, 
Who knows Thy only Son has died, 

To make that pardon sure. 



ALEXANDER POPE 



Was born in London, A. D. 1688. Being a Roman Catholic, he could 
not enter an English University ; but he received an excellent private 
education. His whole life was devoted to literary pursuits, and he soon 
became the first poet of his day. His best works are his Eclogue, his 
Satires, his Essay on Criticism, his Moral Epistles, and his Translation 
of Homer. He died at Twickenham, A.D. 1744. 

No English poet exceeds Pope in melodious versification, splendid 
diction, and copious imagery; he possesses brilliant wit and rare powers 
of combination ; but his invention was very limited. He is completely 

G 2 



100 POPE. 

the poet of artificial life, and rarely succeeds in his attempts to pourtray 
simple nature. In his own department of the poetic art, he is without a 
rival, and is among the most popular and pleasing of English writers. 



THE MESSIAH 1. 



Ye nymphs of Solyma 2 ! begin the song : 
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, 
The dreams of Pindus 3 and th' Aonian maids 4 , 
Delight no more. O, Thou my voice inspire, 
Who touch' d Isaiah's hallow' d lips with fire ! 

Rapt into future times, the bard begun ! 
A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son ! 
From Jesse's 5 root behold a Branch arise, 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies : 
Th' aethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower ; 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, 
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail : 
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale ; 
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
And white-robed Innocence from heav'n descend. 
Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected morn ! 
Oh, spring to light ! auspicious Babe, be born ! 
See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
With all the incense of the breathing spring : 



1 A great part of this poem is taken 3 Pindus, a mountain of Thossaly, 

from Isaiah's prophetic descrip- cred to the Muses, 

tion of Christ's kingdom. 4 Aonian maids, the Muses. 

2 Solyma, Jerusalem. 5 Jesse, the father of King David. 






POPE. 101 

See lofty Lebanon 6 his head advance ; 
See nodding forests on the mountains dance : 
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon" rise, 
And Carmel's 8 flowery top perfume the skies! 
Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers ; 
Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply ; 
The rocks proclaim iti approaching Deity. 
Lo, earth receives Him from the bending skies ; 
Sink down, ye mountains ; and, ye valleys, rise ; 
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ; 
Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ! 
The Saviour comes, by ancient bards foretold ! 
Hear Him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, behold ! 
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
And on the sightless eyeball pour the day : 
Tis He th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
And bid new music charm th 1 unfolding ear : 
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear ; 
From every face He wipes oft 7 every tear. 
In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, 
And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. 
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air ; 
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs ; 
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; 
The tender lambs he raises in his arms, 
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms ; 
Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage, — 
The promised Father of the future age. 
No more shall nation against nation rise, 
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, 

Lebanon, a chain of mountains on 7 Sharon, a fertile valley of Palestine, 
the north of Palestine. 8 Carmel, a mountain of Palestine. 



102 POPE. 

Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover 1 d o'er, 

The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more : 

But useless lances into sithes shall bend, 

And the broad falchion 9 in a plough-share end : 

Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son 

Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; 

Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 

And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field. 

The swain in barren deserts with surprise 

Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 

And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear 

New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 

On rifted rocks, the dragons late abodes, 

The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 

Waste, sandy valleys, once perplex' d with thorn, 

The spiry fir and stately box adorn : 

To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed, 

And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 

The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead., 

And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead : 

The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 

And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. 

The smiling infant in his hand shall take 

The crested basilisk 10 and speckled snake; 

Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey, 

And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. 

Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes ! 
See, a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn, 
In crowding ranks on every side arise, 
Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 

9 falchion, a sword. 10 basilisk, a species of serpent. 



POPE. 103 

See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, 
And heap'd with products of Sabsean 11 springs. 
For thee Idume's 12 spicy forests blow, 
And seeds of gold in Ophirs 13 mountains glow. 
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, 
And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, | 
Nor evening Cynthia fill'her silver horn ; 
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, 
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, • 
O'erflow thy courts : the Light himself shall shine 
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
But fix'd His word, His saving power remains ; 
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns ! 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

Vital spark of heavenly flame ; 
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame : 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying ; 
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life. 

Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 
Sister spirit, come away ! 
What is this absorbs me quite ? 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

11 Sabcean, Arabian. 13 Ophir, a country from which Solo- 

12 Idume, or Idumcea, a country south mon imported gold, supposed to 

of Palestine. be the same as Zanguebar. 



104 POPE. 

The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring : 
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
O Grave ! where is thy victory ? t 

O Death ! where is thy sting ? 



JOHN GAY 

Was born at Barnstaple A.D. 1688. He devoted himself to literary 
pursuits, and succeeded in gaining some very kind friends and patrons. 
He died A.D. 1732. 

His Fables exhibit great ease, freedom and spirit, in the mode of the 
narration, and show much correct feeling and sound moral principle. 



THE PIN AND THE NEEDLE. 

A pin, who long had served a beauty, 
Proficient in the toilette's duty, 
Had form'd her sleeve, confined her hair, 
Or given her knot a smarter air ; 
Now nearest to her heart was placed, 
Now in her mantua's tail disgraced ; 
But could she partial fortune blame, 
Who saw her lovers served the same ? 

At length, from all her honours cast, 
Through various turns of life she past ; 
Now glitter d on a tailor s arm, 
Now kept a beggar's infant warm ; 
Now, ranged within a misers coat, 
Contributes to his yearly groat ; 
Now, raised again from low approach, 
She visits in the doctor s coach : 
Here, there, by various fortune tost, 
At last in Gresham-hall was lost 



GAY. 105 

Charm' d with the wonders of the show, 
On every side, above, below, 
She now of this or that inquires, 
What least was understood admires. 
Tis plain, each thing so struck her mind, 
Her head's of virtuoso kind. 

" And pray what's this, and this, dear sir?" 
" A needle," says th' interpreter. 
She knew the name ; and thus the fool 
Address' d her as a tailors tool. 

" A needle with that filthy stone, 
Quite idle, all with rust o'er grown ! 
You better might employ your parts, 
And aid the sempstress in her arts ; 
But tell me how the friendship grew, 
Between that paltry flint and you ?" 
" Friend," says the needle, " cease to blame ; 
I follow real worth and fame. 
Know'st thou the loadstone's power and art? 
That virtue virtues can impart ? 
Of all his talents I partake ; 
Who then can such a friend forsake ? 
'Tis I direct the pilot's hand 
To shun the rocks and treacherous sand : 
By me the distant world is known, 
And either India is our own. 
Had I with milliners been bred, 
What had I been ? the guide of thread ; 
And drudged, as vulgar needles do, 
Of no more consequence than you." 



THE BUTTEIIFLY AND THE SNAIL. 

All upstarts, insolent in place, 
Remind us of their vulgar race. 



106 GAY. 

As in the sunshine of the morn, 
A butterfly (but newly born,) 
Sat proudly perking on a rose, 
With pert conceit his bosom glows ; 
His wings (all-glorious to behold,) 
Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold, 
Wide he displays ; the spangled dew 
Reflects his eyes and various hue. 

His now-forgotten friend, a snail, 
Beneath his house, with slimy trail, 
Crawls o'er the grass, whom, when he spies, 
In wrath he to the gardener cries : 

" What means yon peasant's daily toil, 
^From choaking weeds to rid the soil ? 
Why wake you to the morning's care ? 
Why with new arts correct the year ? 
Why grows the peach with crimson hue ? 
And why the plum's inviting blue ? 
Were they to feast his taste design'd, 
That vermin of voracious kind ! 
Crush then the slow, the pilfering race, 
So purge thy garden from disgrace." 

" What arrogance !" the snail replied; 
" How insolent is upstart pride ! 
Hadst thou not thus, with insult vain, 
Provoked my patience to complain, 
I had conceal' d thy meaner birth, 
Nor traced thee to the scum of earth ; 
For scarce nine suns have waked the hours, 
To swell the fruit and paint the flowers, 
Since I thy humbler life survey'd, 
• In base, in sordid guise array'd ; 
A hideous insect, vile, unclean, 
You dragg'd a slow and noisome train ; 
And, from your spider-bowels, drew 
Foul film, and span the dirty clue. 



GAY. 107 



I own my humble life, good friend ; 
Snail was I born, and snail shall end. 
And what's a butterfly ! at best, 
He's but a caterpillar drest ; 
And all thy race (a numerous seed,) 
Shall prove of caterpillar breed." 



THE TURKEY AND THE ANT. 

In other men we faults can spy, 
And blame the mote that dims their eye, 
Each little speck and blemish find, — 
To our own stronger errors blind. 

A turkey, tired of common food, 
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood ; 
Behind her ran an infant train, 
Collecting here and there a grain. 
" Draw near, my birds !" the mother cries, 
" This hill delicious fare supplies ; 
Behold the busy negro race, — 
See millions blacken all the place ! 
Fear not ; like me, with freedom eat ; 
An ant is most delightful meat. 
How bless' d, how envied, were our life, 
Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife ; 
But man, cursed man, on turkeys preys, 
And Christmas shortens all our days. 
Sometimes with oysters we combine, 
Sometimes assist the savoury chine ; 
From the low peasant to the lord, 
The Turkey smokes on every board ; 
Sure men for gluttony are cursed, 
Of the seven deadly sins the worst." 



108 GAY. 

An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach, 
Thus answer d from the neighbouring beech : 
" Ere you remark another's sin, 
Bid thy own conscience look within ; 
Control thy more voracious bill, 
Nor for a breakfast nations kill." 



THOMAS TICKELL, 

A Poet of but moderate pretensions, was born A. D. 1686, and died 
A. D. 1740. 

He was the intimate friend of Addison ; and, on the death of that 
great man, superintended the publication of his works. 



TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF 
Mr. ADDISON. 

If dumb too long the drooping Muse hath stay'd, 
And left her debt to Addison unpaid, 
Blame not her silence, Warwick l , but bemoan, 
And judge, oh, judge, my bosom by your own ! 
"What mourner ever felt poetic fires ! 
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires. 
Grief, unaffected, suits but ill with art, 
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 
Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
My soul's best part for ever to the grave ! 
How silent did his old companions tread, 
By midnight lamps, the mansion of the dead ; 
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings ! 
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire ; 
The pealing organ and the pausing choir ; 

1 Warwick; the earl of Warwick was Mr. Addison's step-son. 



TICKELL. 109 

The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid, 
And the last words that dust to dust convey'd ! 
While, speechless, o'er thy closing grave we bend, 
Accept those tears, thou dear departed friend. 
Oh, gone for ever ! take this long adieu, 
And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. 
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, 
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine ; 
Mine, with true sighs, thy absence to bemoan, 
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 
If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, 
May shame afflict this alienated heart ; 
Of thee forgetful if I form a song, 
My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue ; 
My grief be doubled from thy image free, 
And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. 

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone ; 
Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown, 
Along the walls where speaking marbles show, 
What worthies form the hallow' d mould below : 
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ; 
In arms who triumph'd, or in arts excell'd ; 
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood ; 
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; 
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given, 
And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven ; 
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, 
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest ; 
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd 
A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade. 

In what new region, to the just assign'd, 
What new employments please th' unbody'd mind ? 
A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky, 
From world to world unwearied does he fly ? 
Or, curious, trace the long laborious maze 
Of Heavens decrees, where wondering angels gaze ? 



110 TICKELL. 

Does lie delight to hear hold seraphs tell, 
How Michael hattled and the dragon fell ; 
Or, mixd with milder cherubim, to glow 
In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below ? 
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind ? 
A task well suited to thy gentle mind. 
Oh ! if sometimes thy spotless form descend ; 
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! 
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, 
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, 
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, 
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; 
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. 

That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, 
Must still be loved, and still deplored by me, 
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, 
Or, roused by Fancy, meets my waking eyes. 
If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight ; 
If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, 
I meet his soul which breathes in Cato 2 there ; 
If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 
His shape o'ertakes me in the lovely grove ; 
'Twas there of just and good he reason' d strong, 
Clear d some great truth, or raised some serious song : 
There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, 
A candid censor, and a friend severe ; 
Then taught us how to live ; and (oh ! too high 
The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die. 

Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, 
Rear d by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race ; 
Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, 
O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears ! 

2 Cato ; Mr. Addison wrote the tragedy of Cato. 



TICKELL. Ill 

How sweet were once thy prospects, fresh and fair, 

Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air ! 

How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, 

Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze ! 

His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; 

Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; 

No more the- summer in thy glooms allay 1 d, 

Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-tide shade. 

From other ills, however Fortune frown d, 
Some refuge in the Muses art I found ; 
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, 
Bereft of him who taught me how to sing ; 
And these sad accents, murmur d o'er his urn, 
Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 
O ! must I then, (now fresh my bosom bleeds, 
And Craggs 3 in death to Addison succeeds,) 
The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, 
And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song ! 

These works divine, which on his death-bed laid 
To thee, O Craggs ! th' expiring sage convey' d ; 
Great, but ill-omen' d, monument Of fame, 
Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. 
Swift after him thy social spirit flies, 
And close to his, how soon ! thy coffin lies. 
Blest pair ! whose union future bards shall tell 
In future tongues, each other's boast ! farewell, 
Farewell rwhom join'd in fame, in friendship tried, 
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. 

3 CraggS; Mr. Craggs, Secretary of State. 



112 



ROBERT BLAIR 



Was born in Edinburgh A.D. 1699. He died A.D. 1746. Blair's 
chief poem is The Grave, which contains many splendid passages, 
mixed with others of very inferior merit. 



THE GRAVE. 



Invidious Grave ! how dost thou rend in sunder 
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one ! 
A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. 
Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ; 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society, 
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me 
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. 
Oft have I proved the labours of thy love, 
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, 
Anxious to please. O ! when my friend and I 
In some thick wood have wander' d heedless on, 
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down 
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover d bank, 
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along, 
In grateful errors through the underwood 
Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush 
Mended his song of love : the sooty blackbird 
Mellow' d his pipe, and soften' d every note ; 
The eglantine smell' d sweeter, and the rose 
Assumed a dye more deep ; whilst every flower 
Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury 
Of dress. Oh ! then, the longest summers day- 
Seem' d too, too much in haste : still the full heart 
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness 
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, 
Not to return, — how painful the remembrance ! 



BLAIR. 113 

Dull grave, — thou spoil' st the dance of youthful blood, 
Strikest out the dimple from the cheek of mirth, 
And ev'ry smirking feature from the face ; 
Branding our laughter with the name of madness. 
Where are the jesters now? the man of health 
Complexionally pleasant ? Where the droll, 
Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke 
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds, 
And made e'en thick-lipp'd musing Melancholy 
To gather up her face into a smile 
Before she was aware ? Ah ! sullen now, 
And dumb as the green turf that covers them. 

Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war ? 
The Roman Csesars 1 , and the Grecian chiefs, 
The boast of story ? Where the hot-brain'd youth, 
Who the tiara, at his pleasure, tore 
From kings of all the then discover'd globe ; 
And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hamper' d, 
And had not room enough to do its work ? 
Alas ! how slim, dishonourably slim, 
And cramm'd into a space we blush to name ! 
Proud royalty ! how alter'd in thy looks ! 
How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue ! 
Son of the morning ! whither art thou gone ? 
Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head, 
And the majestic menace of thine eyes, 
Felt from afar ? Pliant and powerless now, 
Like new-born infant bound up in his swathes ; 
Or victim, tumbled flat upon his back, 
That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife. 
Mute must thou bear the strife of little tongues, 
And coward insults of the base-born crowd, 
That grudge a privilege thou never hadst, 
But only hoped for in the peaceful grave, 

1 Ccesars ; the Roman emperors were so named from Julius Ceesar, who iirst 
assumed the imperial title. 

H 



114 BLAIR. 

Of being unmolested and alone. 

Arabia's gums and odoriferous drugs, 

And honours by the herald duly paid 

In mode and form, ev'n to a very scruple ; 

Oh, cruel irony ! these come too late ; 

And only mock whom they were meant to honour. 

Surely, there's not a dungeon-slave that's buried 

In the highway, unshrouded and uncomn'd, 

But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as he. 

Sorry pre-eminence of high descent, 

Above the baser-born, to rot in state ! 



DEATH. 

How shocking must thy summons be, O Death ! 
To him that is at ease in his possessions ; 
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, 
Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come ! 
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul 
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement, 
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, 
But shrieks in vain ! How wishfully she looks 
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers ! 
A little longer, yet a little longer, 
O, might she stay, to wash away her stains, 
And fit her for her passage ! Mournful sight ! 
Her very eyes weep blood ; and every groan 
She heaves is big with horror : but the foe, 
Like a stanch murd'rer, steady to his purpose, 
Pursues her close through every lane of life, 
Nor misses once the track, but presses on ; 
Till, forced at last to the tremendous verge, 
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. 
Sure, 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul ! 



BLAIR. 115 

What a strange moment must it be, when, near 
Thy journey s end, thou hast the gulf in view ! 
That awful gulf, no mortal e'er repass' d 
To tell what's doing on the other side. 
Nature runs back, and shudders at the sight, 
And every lifestring bleeds at thoughts of parting ! 
For part they must : body and soul must part ; 
Fond couple ; link'd more close than wedded pair. 
'This wings its way to its Almighty Source, 
The Witness of its actions, now its Judge ; 
That drops into the dark and noisome grave, 
Like a disabled pitcher, of no use. 

If death were nothing, and nought after death ; 
If, when men died, at once they ceased to be, 
Returning to the barren womb of nothing, 
Whence first they sprung ; then might the debauchee 
Untrembling mouth the heavens : then might the drunkard 
Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drain'd, 
Fill up another to the brim, and laugh 
At the poor bugbear Death : then might the wretch 
That's weary of the world, and tired of life, 
At once give each inquietude the slip, 
By stealing out of being when he pleased, 
And by what way, whether by hemp or steel : 
Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force 
The ill-pleased guest to sit out his full time, 
Or blame him if he goes ? Sure he does well, 
That helps himself as timely as he can, 
When able. But if there's an hereafter ; 
And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced, 
And suffer'd to speak out, tells ev'ry man ; 
Then must it be an awful thing to die : 
More horrid yet to die by one's own hand. 
Self-murder ! name it not : our island's shame, 
That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states. 
Shall Nature, swerving from her earliest dictate, 

h 2 



116 BLAIR. 

Self-preservation, fall by her own act ? " 
Forbid it, Heaven ! Let not, upon disgust, 
The shameless hand be foully crimson d o'er 
With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt ! 
Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage 
To rush into the presence of our Judge ; 
As if we challenged him to do his worst, 
And matter d not his wrath ! Unheard-of tortures 
Must be reserved for such : these herd together, 
The common damn'd shun their society, 
And look upon themselves as fiends less foul. 
Our time is fix'd, and all our days are number d ; 
How long, how short, we know not : — this we know, 
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, 
Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission : 
Like sentries that must keep their destined stand, 
And wait th' appointed hour, till they're relieved. 
Those only are the brave who keep their ground, 
And keep it to the last. To run away 
From this world's ills, that, at the very worst, 
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves 
By boldly vent' ring on a world unknown, 
And plunging headlong in the dark ; — 'tis mad : 
No frenzy half so desperate as this. 



THE ENTRANCE OF DEATH INTO THE WORLD. 

Poor, man ! how happy once in thy first state ! 
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand, 
He stamp'd thee with his image, and, well pleased, 
Smiled on his last fair work. Then all was well. 
Sound was the body, and the soul serene ; 
Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tune, 
That play their several parts. Nor head, nor heart, 



BLAIR. 117 

Offer d to ache : nor was there cause they should ; 

For all was pure within : no fell remorse, 

Nor anxious castings-up of what might be, 

Alarm'd his peaceful bosom : — summer seas 

Show not more smooth, when kiss'd by southern winds 

Just ready to expire. Scarce importuned, 

The generous soil, with a luxuriant hand, 

Offer'd the various produce of the year, 

And every thing most perfect in its kind. 

Blessed ! thrice blessed days ! But ah ! how short ! 

Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men, 

But fugitive like those, and quickly gone. 

Oh, slippery state of things ! What sudden turns ! 

What strange vicissitudes in the first leaf 

Of mans sad history ! To-day most happy ; 

And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject ! 

How scant the space between these vast extremes ! 

Thus fared it with our sire : not long he enjoy' d 

His paradise ! Scarce had the happy tenant 

Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets, 

Or sum them up, when straight he must be gone, 

Ne'er to return again. And must he go ? 

Can nought compound for the first dire offence 

Of erring man ? Like one that is condemn'd, 

Fain would he trifle time with idle talk, 

And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain. 

Not all the lavish odours of the place, 

Offer'd in incense, can procure his pardon, 

Or mitigate his doom. A mighty angel, 

With flaming sword, forbids his longer stay, 

And drives the loiterer forth ; nor must he take 

One last and farewell round. At once he lost 

His glory and his God. If mortal now, 

And sorely maim'd, no wonder. Man has sinn'd. 

Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures, 

Evil he would needs try : nor tried in vain. 



118 BLAIR. 

(Dreadful experiment ! destructive measure ! 

Where the worst thing could happen is success.) 

Alas ! too well he sped : the good he scorn" d 

Stalk' d off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost, 

Not to return ; or if it did, its visits, 

Like those of angels, short and far between ; 

Whilst the black daemon, with hell- scaped train, 

Admitted once into its better room, 

Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone ; 

Lording it o'er the man, who now too late 

Saw the rash error, which he could not mend : 

An error fatal not to him alone, 

But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs. 

Inglorious bondage ! Human nature groans 

Beneath a vassalage so vile and cruel, 

And its vast body bleeds through ev'ry vein. 



JAMES THOMSON 

Was born near Kelso, in Scotland, A. D. 1700. He was educated at 
the University of Dublin, where he soon became distinguished by his 
poetic talents. He came to London, and published his Winter, which, 
after remaining for some time unnoticed, was, by the kindness of Mr. 
Whately, an eminent critic, suddenly raised into popularity. The re- 
maining Seasons were published in succession, and received kindly by 
the public. The poem of Liberty had less success; but the Castle of 
Indolence again retrieved the poet's fame. He died at Kew, A. D. 1748. 
Thomson's vivid descriptions of natural scenery will ever make the 
Seasons a popular poem, in spite of its cumbrous diction and occasionally 
harsh versification. The Castle of Indolence is the best modern imitation 
of Spenser. 

SHOWERS IN SPRING. 

The North-east spends his rage ; he now, shut up 
Within his iron cave, th' effusive 1 South 

1 effusive, pouring out. { 



THOMSON. 119 

Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven 

Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent 2 . 

At first, a dusky wreath they seem to rise, 

Scarce staining ether, but by swift degrees, 

In heaps on heaps the doubled vapour sails, 

Along the loaded sky, and, mingling deep, 

Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom ; 

Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, 

Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind, 

And full of ev'ry hope, of ev'ry joy, 

The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze 

Into a perfect calm, that not a breath 

Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, 

Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves 

Of aspen tall. Th' uncurling floods, diffused 

In glassy breadth, seem, through delusive lapse, 

Forgetful of their course. Tis silence all, 

And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks 

Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye 

The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense, 

The plumy people streak their wings with oil, 

To throw the lucid moisture trickling off, 

And wait th' approaching sign, to strike at once 

Into the gen'ral choir. Ev'n mountains, vales, 

And forests, seem impatient to demand 

The promised sweetness. Man superior walks 

Amid the glad creation, musing praise, 

And looking lively gratitude. At last, 

The clouds consign their treasures to the fields, 

And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool 

Prelusive 3 drops, let all their moisture flow 

In large effusion o'er the freshen' d world. 

The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard 

By such as wander through the forest-walks, 

Beneath th' umbrageous 4 multitude of leaves. 

2 distent, distended. 3 prelusive, introductory. 4 umbrageous, shady. 



120 THOMSON. 

A TROPICAL STORM. 

Nor stop the terror of these regions here. 
Commission d dsemons oft, angels of wrath, 
Let loose the raging elements. Breathed hot 
From all the boundless furnace of the sky, 
And the wide-glittering waste of burning sand, 
A suffocating wind the pilgrim smites 
With instant death. Patient of thirst and toil, 
Son of the desert ! ev'n the camel feels 
Shot through his wither d heart the fiery blast. 
Or from the black-red ether, bursting broad, 
Sallies the sudden whirlwind. Straight the sands, 
Commoved around, in gathering eddies play ; 
Nearer and nearer still they dark'ning come, 
Till with the gen'ral all-involving storm 
Swept up, the whole continuous wilds arise ; 
And by their noonday fount dejected thrown, 
Or sunk at night in sad disastrous sleep, 
Beneath descending hills the caravan 
Is buried deep. In Cairo's l crowded streets, 
Th' impatient merchant, wond'ring, waits in vain ; 
And Mecca 2 saddens at the long delay. 

But chief at sea, whose every flexile 3 wave 
Obeys the blast, the aerial tumult swells. 
In the dread ocean, undulating wide 
Beneath the radiant line that girts the globe, 
The circling Typhon 4 , whirr d from point to point, 
Exhausting all the rage of all the sky, 
And dire Ecnephia^ reign. Amid the heavns, 
Falsely serene, deep in a cloudy speck 
Compress' d, the mighty tempest brooding dwells, 
Of no regard, save to the skilful eye : 



1 Cairo, a city of Egypt. 4 Typhon, a whirlwind. 

2 Mecca, a city of Arabia. 5 Ecnephia, darkness. 

3 flexile, bending easily.- 



THOMSON. 121 

Fiery and foul, the small prognostic hangs 

Aloft, or on the promontory's brow 

Musters its force ; a faint, deceitful calm, 

A flutt'ring gale, the dsemon sends before, 

To tempt the spreading sail : then down at once, 

Precipitant, descends a mingled mass 

Of roaring winds, and flame, and rushing floods. 

In wild amazement fix'd, the sailor stands. 

Art is too slow ; by rapid fate oppress' d, 

His broad-wing'd vessel drinks the whelming tide, 

Hid in the bosom of the black abyss. 

With such mad seas the daring Gama 6 fought 

For many a day, and many a dreadful night, 

Incessant lab'ring round the stormy Cape 7 , 

By bold ambition led, and bolder thirst 

Of gold : for then, from ancient gloom, emerged 

The rising world of trade : the genius then 

Of navigation, that in hopeless sloth 

Had slumber'd on the vast Atlantic deep 

For idle ages, starting, heard at last 

The Lusitanian 8 prince, who, heav'n-inspired, 

To love of useful glory roused mankind, 

And in unbounded commerce mix'd the world. 

Increasing still the terrors of these storms, 
His jaws horrific arm'd with threefold fate, 
Here dwells the direful shark. Lured by the scent 
Of steaming crowds, of rank disease, and death, 
Behold ! he rushing cuts the briny flood, 
Swift as the gale can bear the ship along, 
And from the partners of that cruel trade 9 , 
Which spoils unhappy Guinea 10 of her sons, 
Demands his share of prey ; demands themselves. 

6 Gama, Vasco de Gama, who first dis- was the ancient name of Por- 

covered the passage round the frugal. 

Cape of Good Hope. 9 cruel trade, the slave trade ; since 

7 Cape, the Cape of Good Hope. abolished. 

8 Lusitanian, Portuguese. Lusitania 10 Guinea, part of Western Africa. 



122 THOMSON. 

The stormy fates descend : one death involves 
Tyrants and slaves ; when straight their mangled limbs 
Crushing at once, he dyes the purple seas 
With gore, and riots in the vengeful meal. 

When o'er this world, by equinoctial u rains 
Flooded immense, looks out the joyless sun, 
And draws the copious steam from swampy fens, 
Where putrefaction into life ferments, 
And breathes destructive myriads ; or from woods, 
Impenetrable shades, recesses foul, 
In vapours rank and blue corruption wrapp'd, 
Whose gloomy horrors yet no desperate foot 
Has ever dared to pierce ; then, wasteful, forth 
Walks the dire pow'r of pestilent disease. 
A thousand hideous fiends her course attend, 
Sick nature blasting, and to heartless wo 
And feeble desolation casting down 
The tow'ring hopes and all the pride of man ; 
Such as of late at Carthagena 12 quench' d 
The British fire. You, gallant Vernon 13 J sa w 
The miserable scene ; you, pitying, saw 
To infant-weakness sunk the warriors arm; 
Saw the deep-racking pang, the ghastly form, . 
The lip pale-quivring, and the beamless eye 
No more with ardour bright : you heard the groans 
Of agonizing ships from shore to shore ; 
Heard nightly plunged amid the sullen waves 
The frequent corse, while on each other fix'd, 
In sad presage, the blank assistants seem'd 
Silent to ask whom fate would next demand. 



11 equinoctial, occurring at either equinox, that is, in March or September. 

12 Carthagena, a city of Spanish America ; it was blockaded by an English 

fleet, the sailors on board which suffered dreadfully from a pestilential 
disease. 

13 Vernon, the English admiral. 



THOMSON. 123 



MISTS IN AUTUMN. 



Now, by the cool, declining year condensed, 
Descend the copious exhalations, check' d 
As up the middle sky unseen they stole, 
And roll the doubling~fogs around the hill. 
No more the mountain, horrid, vast, sublime, 
Who pours a sweep of rivers from his sides, 
And high between contending kingdoms rears 
The rocky long division, fills the view 
With great variety ; but in a night 
Of gath'ring vapour'from the baffled sense 
Sinks dark and dreary ; thence expanding far, 
The huge dusk gradual swallows up the plain : 
Vanish the woods ; the dim-seen river seems 
Sullen and slow to roll the misty wave. 
Ev'n in the height of noon oppress' d, the sun 
Sheds weak and blunt his wide-refracted ray, 
Whence glaring oft with many a broaden d orb 
He frights the nations. Indistinct on earth, 
Seen through the turbid air, beyond the life 
Objects appear, and, wilder' d o'er the waste, 
The shepherd stalks gigantic : till, at last, 
Wreathed dun around in deeper circles, still 
Successive closing, sits the gen'ral fog 
Unbounded o'er the world, and, mingling thick, 
A formless gray confusion covers all. 



SNOW. 

The keener tempests rise ; and fuming dun, 
From all the livid east or piercing north 
Thick clouds ascend, in whose capacious womb 
A vap'ry deluge lies, to snow congeal' d. 
Heavy they roll their fleecy world along, 
And the sky saddens with the gather' d storm* 



124 THOMSON. 

Through the hush'd air the whitening show'r descends, 

At first thin wav ring, till, at last, the flakes 

Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day 

With a continual flow. The cherish' d fields 

Put on their winter-robe of purest white : 

'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts 

Along the mazy current. Low the woods 

Bow then hoar head ; and ere the languid sun, 

Faint, from the west, emits his evening ray, 

Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill, 

In one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide 

The works of man. Drooping, the lab'rer ox 

Stands cover d o'er with snow, and then demands 

The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heav'n, 

Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 

The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 

Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 

The red-breast, sacred to the household gods, 

Wisely regardful of th' embroiling sky, 

In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 

His shiv'ring mates, and pays to trusted man 

His annual visit. Half afraid, he first 

Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights 

On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the floor, 

Eyes all the smiling family askance, 

And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is ! 

Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs 

Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 

Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, 

Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 

By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs, 

And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, 

Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind 

Eye the bleak heav'n, and next the glist'ning earth, 

With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad, dispersed, 

Dig for the wither' d herb through heaps of snow. 



THOMSON. 125 

As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce 

All winter drives along the darken' d air, 

In his own loose-revolving fields the swain 

Disaster'd stands ; sees other hills ascend, 

Of unknown joyless brow, and other scenes, 

Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; 

Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid 

Beneath the formless wild, but wanders on 

From hill to dale, still more and more astray, 

Impatient, flouncing through the drifted heaps, 

Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home 

Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth 

In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul ! 

What black despair, what horror fills his heart ! 

When, for the dusky spot which fancy feign' d 

His tufted cottage, rising through the snow, 

He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 

Far from the track and bless'd abode of man ; 

While round him night resistless closes fast, 

And ev'ry tempest, howling o'er his head, 

Renders the savage wilderness morq wild : 

Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, 

Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, 

A dire descent ! beyond the pow'r of frost ; 

Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge, 

Smooth' d up with snow ; and what is land unknown, 

What water of the still unfrozen spring, 

In the loose marsh or solitary lake, 

Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 

These check his fearful steps, and down he sinks 

Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, 

Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, 

Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots 

Through the wrung bosom of the dying man, 

His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 

In vain for him th' officious wife prepares 



126 THOMSON. 

The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ; 
In vain his little children, peeping out 
Into the mingling storm demand their sire, 
With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold, 
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On ev'ry nerve 
The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense, 
And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, 
Lays him along the snows, a stiffen' d corse, 
Stretch' d out, and bleaching in the northern blast. 



THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round, 
A most enchanting wizard l did abide, 
Than whom a fiend more fell nowhere is found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 
And there, a season atween 2 June and May, 
Half-prankt 3 with spring, with summer half-embrown'd, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
No living wight could work, nor cared e'en for play : 

Was nought around but images of rest ; 
Sleep-soothing groves and quiet lawns between ; 
And flowery beds, that slumberous influence kest 4 , 
From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant green, „ 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd, 
And hurled every where their waters sheen 5, 
That, as they bicker'd 6 through the sunny glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 

1 wizard, a person who practises ma- 4 kest, cast. 

gical arts. 5 sheen, shining. 

2 atween, between. 6 bicker'd, flowed with a murmuring 

3 prankt, adorned. sound. 



THOMSON. 127 

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills, 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, 
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale ; 
And now and then sweet Philomel 7 would wail, 
Or stock-doves plain 8 amid the forest deep, 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale, 
And still a coil 9 the grasshopper did keep ; 
Yet all these sounds yblent 10 inclined all to sleep. 

Full in the passage of the vale above, 
A sable, silent, solemn, forest stood ; 
Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move, 
As Idlesse 11 fancy'd in her dreaming mood, 
And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
Of blackening pines, aye 12 , waving to and fro, 
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ; 
And where this valley wended 13 out below, 
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard to flow. 

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky ; 
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 
And the calm pleasures always hover' d nigh ; 
But whate'er smack' d of noyance u or unrest, 
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest. 

******* 
The doors that knew no shrill alarming bell, 
Ne cursed knocker plied by villain's 15 hand, 
Self-open' d into halls, where, who can tell 
What elegance and grandeur wide expand, 

7 Philomel,- the nightingale. 12 aye, always. 

8 plain, complain. 13 wended, went. 

9 coil, disturbing noise. 14 noyance, annoyance. 

10 yblent, blended, or mix,ed. 15 villain, servant. 

11 idlesse, idleness. 



28 THOMSON. 

The pride of Turkey and of Persia land ! 
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets, carpets spread, 
And couches stretch' d around in seemly hand, 
And endless pillows rise to prop the head, 
So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed. 

And every where huge cover d tables stood, 
With wines high-flavour' d and rich viands crown'd ; 
Whatever sprightly juice, or tasteful food, 
On the green bosom of this earth are found, 
And all old Ocean genders l 6 in his round : 
Some hand, unseen, these silently display'd, 
Ev'n undemanded by a sign or sound ; 
You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd, 
Fair ranged the dishes rose, . and thick the glasses play'd. 

The rooms with costly tapestry were hung, 
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale ; 
Such as of old the rural poets sung, 
Or of Arcadian *7 or Sicilian vale : 
Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale, 
Pourd forth at large the sweetly-tortured heart ; 
Or, sighing tender passion, swell'd the gale, 
And taught charm'd echo to resound then smart, 
While flocks, woods, streams around, repose and peace impart. 

Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand, 
Depainted was the patriarchal age ; 
What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land, 
And pastured on from verdant stage to stage, 
Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage. 
Toil was not then. Of nothing took they heed, 
But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage, 
And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed : 
Blest sons of nature they ! true golden age indeed ! 



16 genders, produces. 
17 Arcadian; Arcadia was a pastoral district in southern Greece. 



I 



THOMSON. 129 

Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls, 
Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise, 
Or autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls ; 
Now the black tempest strikes th' astonish' d eyes, 
Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies ; 
The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue, 
And now rude mountains frown amid the skies ; 
Whate'er Lorraine 18 light-touch' d with soft'ning hue, 
Or savage Rosa 19 dash'd, or learned Poussin 20 drew. 

Each sound, too, here, to languishment inclined, 
Lull'd the weak bosom, and induced ease. 
Aerial music in the warbling wind, 
At distance rising, oft by small degrees, 
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees 
It hung, and breathed such soul-dissolving airs, 
As did, alas ! with soft perdition please : 
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares, 
The listening heart forgets all duties and all cares. 

A certain music, never known before, 
Here lull'd the pensive melancholy mind ; 
Full easily obtain'd : behoves no more, 
But side-long to the gently-waving wind, 
To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined, 
From which, with airy-flying fingers light, 
Beyond each mortal touch the most refined, 
The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight ; 
Whence, with just cause, the harp of iEolus it hight 21 . 

Ah me ! what hand can touch the string so fine ? 
Who up the lofty diapason 22 roll 
Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine, 
Then let them down again into the soul ? 

18 Lorraine ; Claude Lorraine, a cele- 20 Poussin ; Nicholas Poussin, a French 

brated landscape painter. painter 

19 Eosa ; Salvator Rosa, an Italian 21 hight, called, named. 

painter, remarkable for Ms deline- 22 diapason, a sound from all the strings. 
ations of wild and savage scenery. 

I 



130 THOMSON. 

Now rising love they fann'd ; now pleasing dole 23 
They breathed, in tender musings, through the heart, 
And now a graver, sacred strain they stole, 
As when seraphic hands an hymn impart ; 
Wild-warbling nature all, above the reach of art. 

Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran 
Soft-tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, 
And sobbing breezes sigh'd, and oft began 
(So work'd the wizard) wintry storms to swell, 
As heaven and earth they would together mell ; 
At doors and windows, threatening seem'd to call 
The demons of the tempest, growling fell, 
Yet the least entrance found they none at all, 
Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall, 

And hither Morpheus 2 ± sent his kindest dreams, 
Raising a world of gayer tint and grace ; 
O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian25 gleams, 
That play'd in waving lights from place to place, 
And shed a roseate smile on Nature's face. 
Not Titian's 26 pencil e'er could so array, 
So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space ; 
Ne could it e'er such melting forms display, 
As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. 

23 dole, melancholy. called the place whither the souls 

24 Morpheus, the heathen god of sleep. of the blessed went, Elysium. 

25 Elysian, heavenly ; the heathens 26 Titian, a celebrated Italian painter. 



131 



EDWARD YOUNG 

Was born A.D. 1681. He was educated at Oxford, and from his ear- 
liest years showed a strong predilection for a religious life. Though 
tempted by the offer of a seat in Parliament, he entered into holy orders, 
and faithfully devoted all his energies to the duties of his sacred profes- 
sion. He died at an advanced age A.D. 1765. 

The poems of Young exhibit great force of language and purity of 
sentiment, but he sometimes degenerates into bombast and extravagance. 
His Night Thoughts .contain some of his best and worst passages ; but 
his Paraphrase of the Book of Job is, taken as a whole, his finest work. 



GOD'S ADDRESS TO JOB. 

Come forth, in beauty's excellence array'd, 

And be the grandeur of thy power display'd ; 

Put on omnipotence, and, frowning, make 

The spacious round of the creation shake ; 

Despatch thy vengeance, bid it overthrow 

Triumphant vice, lay lofty tyrants low, 

And crumble them to dust. When this is done, 

I grant thy safety lodged in thee alone ; 

Of thee thou art, and may'st undaunted stand 

Behind the buckler of thine own right hand. 

Fond man ! the vision of a moment made ! 
Dream of a dream ! and shadow of a shade ! 
What worlds hast thou produced, what creatures framed, 
What insects cherish' d, that thy God is blamed ? ' 
When pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood 
Loud calls on God, importunate for food ; 
Who hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request, 
And stills the clamour of the craving nest ? 

Who in the stupid ostrich has subdued 
A parent's care and fond inquietude ? 
While far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found, 
Without an owner, on the sandy ground ; 

i 2 



132 YOUNG. 

Cast out on fortune, they at mercy lie, 
And borrow life from an indulgent sky : 
Adopted by the sun, in blaze of day, 
They ripen under his prolific ray. 
Unmindful she, that some unhappy tread 
May crush her young in their neglected bed. 
What time she skims along the field with speed, 
She scorns the rider and pursuing steed. 

How rich the peacock ! what bright glories run 
From plume to plume, and vary in the sun ! 
He proudly spreads them to the golden ray, 
.Gives all his colours, and adorns the day ; 
With conscious state the spacious round displays, 
And slowly moves amid the waving blaze. 

Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise, 
Perpetual summer, and a change of skies ? 
When clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind, 
Shoots to the south, nor fears the storm behind ; 
The sun returning, she returns again, 
Lives in his beams, and leaves ill days to men. 

Though strong the hawk, though practised well to fly, 
An eagle drops her in a lower sky ; 
An eagle, when, deserting human sight, 
She seeks the sun in her unwearied flight ; 
Did thy command her yellow pinion lift 
So high in air, and set her on the clift, 
Where far above thy world she dwells alone, 1 
And proudly makes the strength of rocks her own ; 
Thence wide o'er Nature takes her dread survey, 
And with a glance predestinates her prey ? 
She feasts her young with blood, and, hovering o'er 
Th' unslaughter'd host, enjoys the promised gore. 

Know'st thou how many moons, by me assign'd, 
Roll o'er the mountain goat and forest hind, 
While pregnant they a mother's load sustain ? 
They bend in anguish, and cast forth their pain. 



YOUNG. 133 

Hale are their young, from human frailties freed ; 
Walk unsustain'd, and unassisted feed : 
They live at once ; forsake the dam's warm side ; 
Take the wide world with Nature for their guide ; 
Bound o'er the lawn, or seek the distant glade, 
And find a home in each delightful shade. 

Will the tall reem l , which knows no lord but me, 
Low at the crib, and ask an alms of thee ? 
Submit his unworn shoulder to the yoke, 
Break the stiff clod, and o'er thy furrow smoke ? 
Since great his strength, go trust him, void of care ; 
Lay on his neck the toil of all the year ; 
Bid him bring home the seasons to thy doors, 
And cast his load among thy gather'd stores. 



THE HORSE. 



Survey the warlike horse! didst thou invest 
With thunder his robust distended chest ? 
No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays ; 
'Tis dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze : 
To paw the vale he proudly takes delight, 
And triumphs in the fulness of his might ; 
High raised, he snuffs the battle from afar, 
And burns to plunge amid the raging war ; 
And mocks at death, and throws his foam around, 
And in a storm of fury shakes the ground. 
How doth his firm, his rising heart advance, 
Full on the brandish'd sword and shaken lance ; 
While his fix'd eye-balls meet the dazzling shield, 
Gaze and return the lightning of the field ! 
He sinks the sense of pain in generous pride, 
Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side ; 
But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast 
Till death; and when he groans, he groans his last. 

1 reem, the wild buffalo. 



134 YOUNG. 



THE BEHEMOTH AND LEVIATHAN. 

Mild is my behemoth l, though large his frame ; 
Smooth is his temper, and represt his flame, 
While unprovoked. This native of the flood 
Lifts his broad foot, and puts ashore, for food ; 
Earth sinks beneath him, as he moves along 
To seek the herbs, and mingle with the throng. 
See with what strength his harden'd loins are bound, 
All over proof and shut against a wound. 
How like a mountain-cedar moves his tail ! 
Nor can his complicated sinews fail. 
Built high and wide, his solid bones surpass 
The bars of steel ; his ribs are ribs of brass ; 
His port majestic, and his armed jaw, 
Give the wide forest and the mountain law. 
The mountains feed him ; there the beasts admire 
The mighty stranger, and in dread retire ; 
At length his greatness nearer they survey, 
Graze in his shadow, and his eye obey. 
The fens and marshes are his cool retreat, 
His noon-tide shelter from the burning heat ; 
Their sedgy bosoms his wide couch are made, 
And groves of willows give him all their shade. 
His eye drinks Jordan up, when fired with drought, 
He trusts to turn its current down his throat ; 
In lessen d waves it creeps along the plain : 
He sinks a river, and he thirsts again. 

Go to the Nile, and, from its fruitful side, 
Cast forth thy line into the swelling tide ; 
With slender hair leviathan 2 command, 
And stretch his vastness on the loaded strand. 
Will he become thy servant ? Will he own 
Thy lordly nod, and tremble at thy frown ? 

1 behemoth, the hippopotamus. 2 leviathan, the crocodile. 



YOUNG. 135 

Or with his sport amuse thy leisure day, 

And, bound in silk, with thy soft maidens play ? 

Shall pompous banquets swell with such a prize, 
And the bowl journey round his ample size ? 
Or the debating merchants share the prey, 
And various limbs to various marts convey ? 
Through his firm skull what steel its way can win ? 
What forceful engine can subdue his skin ? 
Fly far and live ; tempt not his matchless might : 
The bravest shrink to cowards in his sight ; 
The rashest dare not rouse him up : who then 
Shall turn on me, among the sons of men ? J 

Am I a debtor ? Hast thou ever heard 
Whence come the gifts that are on me conferr'd ? 
My lavish fruit a thousand valleys, fills, 
And mine the herds that graze a thousand hills : 
Earth, sea, and air, — all Nature is my own ; 
And stars and sun are dust beneath my throne. " 
And darest thou with the world's great Father vie, 
Thou, who dost tremble at my creature's eye ? 
At full my large leviathan shall rise, 
Boast all his strength, and spread his wondrous size. 
Who, great in arms, e'er stripp'd his shining mail, 
Or crown'd his triumph with a single scale ? 
Whose heart sustains him to draw near ? Behold, 
Destruction yawns ; his spacious jaws unfold, 
And marshall'd round the wide expanse, disclose 
Teeth edged with death, and crowding rows on rows ; 
What hideous fangs on either side arise ! 
And what a deep abyss between them lies ! 
Mete 3 with thy lance, and with thy plummet sound, 
The one how long, the other how profound. 
His bulk is charged with such a furious soul, 
That clouds of smoke from his spread nostrils roll, 

3 mete, measure. 



136 YOUNG. 

As from a furnace ; and, when roused his ire, 
Fate issues from his jaws in streams of fire. 
The rage of tempests, and the roar of seas, 
Thy terror this, thy great superior please ; 
Strength on his ample shoulder sits in state y. 
His well-join'd limbs are dreadfully complete ; 
His flakes of solid flesh are slow to part ; 
As steel his nerves ; as adamant his heart. 

When, late awaked, he rears him from the floods, 
And, stretching forth his stature to the clouds, 
Writhes in the sun aloft his scaly height, 
And strikes the distant hills with transient light, 
Far round are fatal damps of terror spread, 
The mighty fear, nor blush to own their dread, 

Large is his front ; and when his burnish' d eyes 
Lift their broad lids, the morning seems to rise. 

In vain may death in various shapes invade, 
The swift-wing d arrow, the descending blade, 
His naked breast their impotence defies ; 
The dart rebounds, the brittle falchion flies. 
Shut in himself, the war without he hears, 
Safe in the tempest of their rattling spears ; ' 
The cumber d strand their wasted volleys strow ; 
His sport, the rage and labour of the foe. 
His pastimes like a cauldron boil the flood, 
And blacken ocean with the rising mud ; 
The billows feel him as he works his way ; 
His hoary footsteps shine along the sea ; 
The foam, high-wrought with white, divides the green, 
And distant sailors point where death has been. 

His like earth bears not on her spacious face ; 
Alone in Nature stands his dauntless race, 
For utter ignorance of fear renown d, 
In wrath he rolls his baleful eye around ; 
Makes every swoln, disdainful heart subside, 
And holds dominion o'er the sons of pride. 



YOUNG. 137 

ADDEESS TO THE DEITY. 

[From the Night Thoughts.] 

Great System of perfections ! mighty Cause 

Of causes mighty ! Cause uncaused ! sole root 

Of Nature, that luxuriant growth of God ! 

First Father of effects ! that progeny 

Of endless series ; where the golden chain's 

Last link admits a period, who can tell ? 

Father of all that is or heard, or hears ! 

Father of all that is or seen, or sees ! 

Father of all that is, or shall arise ! 

Father of this immeasurable mass 

Of matter multiform : or dense, or rare ; 

Opaque, or lucid ; rapid, or at rest ; 

Minute, or passing bound ! in each extreme 

Of like amaze, and mystery, to man. 

Father of these bright millions of the night ! 

Of which the least full godhead had proclaim'd, 

And thrown the gazer on his knee. Or, say, 

Is appellation higher still Thy choice ? 

Father of matter's temporary lord ! 

Father of spirits ! nobler offspring ! sparks 

Of high paternal glory ; rich endow'd 

With various measures, and with various modes 

Of instinct, reason, intuition ; beams 

More pale, or bright from day divine, to break 

The darker matter organized (the ware 

Of all created spirit) ; beams, that rise 

Each over other in superior light, 

Till the last ripens into lustre strong, 

Of next approach to godhead. Father fond 

(Far fonder than e'er bore that name on earth) 

Of intellectual beings ! beings blest 

With powers to please Thee ! not of passive ply 



138 YOUNG. 

To laws they know not ; beings lodged in seats 
Of well-adapted joys, in different domes 
Of this imperial palace for thy sons ; ♦ 

Of this proud, populous, well-policy' d, 
Though boundless, habitation, plann'd by Thee : 
Whose several clans their several climates suit ; 
And transposition, doubtless, would destroy. 
Or, oh ! indulge, immortal King, indulge 
A title, less august indeed, but more 
Endearing ; ah ! how sweet in human ears, 
Sweet in our ears, and triumph in our hearts ! 
Father of immortality to man ! 

****** 

And Thou the next ! yet equal ! Thou, by whom 
That blessing was convey'd; far more! was bought, 
Ineffable the price ! by whom all worlds 
Were made ; and one redeem' d ! illustrious light, 
From light illustrious ! Thou, whose regal power, 
Finite in time, but infinite in space, 
On more than adamantine' basis fix'd, 
O'er more, far more, than diadems and thrones, 
• Inviolably reigns ; the dread of gods ! 

And oh ! the friend of man ! beneath whose foot, 
And by the mandate of whose awful nod, 
All regions, revolution, fortunes, fates, 
Of high, of low, of mind, and matter, roll 
Through the short channels of expiring time, 
Or shoreless ocean of eternity, 
Calm or tempestuous (as thy spirit breathes), 
In absolute subjection ! And, O Thou, 
The glorious ThirdJ distinct, not separate ! 
Beaming from both ! with both incorporate ; 
And (strange to tell !) incorporate with dust ! 
By condescension, as Thy glory, great ; 
Enshrined in man ! of human hearts, if pure, 
Divine Inhabitant ! the tie divine 



YOUNG. . > 139 

Of heaven with distant earth ! by whom, I trust, 

(If not inspired) uncensured this address 

To Thee, to Them — to whom ? mysterious Power ! 

Reveal' d ! yet unreveal'd ! — darkness in light ! 

Number in unity ! our joy ! our dread ! 

The triple bolt that lays all wrong in ruin ! 

That animates all right, the triple sun ! 

Sun of the soul ! her never-setting sun ! 

Triune, unutterable, unconceived, 

Absconding, yet demonstrable, great God ! 

Greater than greatest ! better than the best ! 

Kinder than kindest ! with soft pity's eye, ; 

Or (stronger still to speak it) with Thine own, 

From- Thy bright home, from that high firmament, 

Where Thou from all eternity hast dwelt ; 

Beyond archangels' unassisted ken ; 

From far above what mortals highest call ; 

From elevation's pinnacle ; look down 

Through — what ? confounding interval ! through all 

And more than labouring fancy can conceive ; 

Through radiant ranks of essences unknown ; 

Through hierarchies from hierarchies detach' d, 

Round various banners of omnipotence, 

With endless change of rapturous duties fired ; 

Through wondrous beings, interposing swarms, 

All clustering at the call, to dwell in Thee ; 

Through this wide waste of worlds, this vista vast, 

All sanded o'er with suns ; suns turn'd to night 

Before thy feeblest beam. Look down — down — down, 

On a poor breathing particle in dust, 

Or, lower, an immortal in his crimes. 

His crimes forgive ! forgive his virtues, too ! 

Those smaller faults, half-converts to the right. 

Nor let me close these eyes, which never more 

May see the sun (though night's descending scale 



140 YOUNG, 

Now weighs up morn), unpitied, and unblest ! 

In Thy displeasure dwells eternal pain ; 

Pain, our aversion ; pain, which strikes me now ; 

And, since all pain is terrible to man, 

Though transient, terrible ; at thy good hour, 

Gently, ah ! gently, lay me in my bed, 

My clay-cold bed ! by nature now so near ; 

By nature near ; still nearer by disease ! 

Till then, be this an emblem of my'grave : 

Let it outpreach the preacher ; every night 

Let it outcry the boy at Philip's ear ; 

That tongue of death ! that herald of the tomb ! 

And when (the shelter of Thy wing implored) 

My senses, soothed, shall sink in soft repose, 

O, sink this truth still deeper in my soul, 

Suggested by my pillow, sign'd by fate, 

First, in fate's volume, at the page of man — 

Man's sickly soul, though turn'd and toss'd for ever, 

From side to side, can rest on nought but Thee : 

Here, in full trust ; hereafter, in full joy ; 

On Thee, the promised, sure, eternal down 

Of spirits, toil'd in travel through this vale. 

Nor of that pillow shall my soul despond ; 

For, Love almighty ! Love almighty ! (sing, 

Exult, creation !) Love almighty reigns ! 

That death of death ! that cordial of despair ! 

And loud eternity's triumphant song ! 



141 



MARK AKENSIDE 

Was born A. D. 1721, at Newcastle-on-Tyne. He studied medicine in 
the Universities of Leyden and Edinburgh ; from the former of which 
he received his doctor's degree. In 1744, he published his best poem, 
The Pleasures of Imagination. His professional career was, at first, very 
discouraging ; but, when advanced in life, he attained such eminence as 
to be appointed physician to the queen. He died of fever, A. D. 1770. 

Akenside does not rank very high among our poets ; he possessed great 
vigour, and occasional sublimity of imagination ; but his diction is stiff 
and cumbrous, and he frequently prefers obscurity to simplicity. 



THE FLIGHT OF IMAGINATION. 

The high-born soul 

Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing 
Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth 
And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft, 
Through fields of air ; pursues the flying storm ; 
Rides on the volley d lightning through the heavens ; 
Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern blast, 
Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars 
The blue profound, and, hovering round the sun, 
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream 
Of light ; beholds his unrelenting sway 
Bend the reluctant planets to absolve 
The fated rounds of Time. Thence far effused 
She darts her swiftness up the long career 
Of devious comets ; through its burning signs 
Exulting measures the perennial wheel 
Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, 
Whose blended light, as with a milky zone, 
Invest the orient. Now amazed she views 
The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold, 
Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode ;. 
And fields of radiance, whose unfading light 



142 AKENSIDE. 

Has travell'd the profound six thousand years, 
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. 
Even on the barriers of the world untired, 
She meditates th' eternal depth below ; 
Till, half recoiling, down the headlong steep 
She plunges ; soon o'erwhelm'd and swallow'd up 
In that immense of being. There her hopes 
Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth 
Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, 
That not in humble nor in brief delight, 
Not in the fading echoes of renown, 
Powers purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, 
The soul should find enjoyment; but from these 
Turning disdainful to an equal good, 
Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view, 
Till every bound at length should disappear, 
And infinite perfection close the scene. 



MORAL BEAUTY. 

Mind, mind alone (bear witness, Earth and Heaven !) 

The living fountains in itself contains 

Of beauteous and sublime : here, hand in hand, 

Sit paramount the Graces ; here enthroned, 

Celestial Venus, with divinest airs, 

Invites the soul to never-fading joy. 

Look then abroad though Nature, to the range 

Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, 

Wheeling unshaken through the void immense : 

And speak, O man ! does this capacious scene 

With half that kindling majesty dilate 

Thy strong conception, as when Brutus 1 rose 

1 Brutus, the assassin of Julius Csesar. We do not coincide with the poet's 
sentiments respecting the atrocious murder, which he describes as an act 
of pure patriotism. The crime of assassination could not be justified by 



AKENSIDE. 143 

Refulgent from the stroke of Csesar's fate, 

Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm 

Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 

When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud 

On Tully's 2 name, and shook his crimson steel, 

And bade the father of his country hail ? 

For, lo ! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, 

And Rome again is free ! Is aught so fair, 

In all the dewy landscapes of the spring, 

In the bright eye of Hesper3 or the morn, 

In Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair 

As virtuous friendship ? as the candid blush 

Of him who strives with fortune to be just ? 

The graceful tear that streams for others' woes ? 

Or the mild majesty of private life, 

Where Peace with ever-blooming olive crowns 

The gate ; where Honour's liberal hands effuse 

Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings 

Of Innocence and Love protect the scene ? 

Once more search, undismay'd, the dark profound, 

Where Nature works in secret ; view the beds 

Of mineral treasure, and the eternal vault 

That bounds the hoary Ocean ; trace the forms 

Of atoms moving with incessant change 

Their elemental round ; behold the seeds 

Of being, and the energy of life 

Kindling the mass with ever-active flame : 

Then to the secrets of the working mind 

Attentive turn ; from dim oblivion call 

Her fleet, ideal band ; and bid them, go ! 

Break through Time's barrier, and o'ertake the hour 

That saw the heavens created : then declare 



any motives, least of all by party zeal, which alone actuated Brutus and 
the other conspirators. 
2]Tully, one of Cicero's names ; he was the greatest of the Roman orators. 
3 Hesper, the evening star. 



144 AKENSIDE. 

If aught were found in those external scenes 

To move thy wonder now. For what are all 

The forms which "brute, unconscious matter wears, 

Greatness of bulk, or symmetry of parts ? 

Not reaching to the heart, soon feeble grows 

The superficial impulse ; dull their charms, 

And satiate soon, and pall the languid eye. 

Not so the moral species, nor the powers 

Of genius and design ; the ambitious mind 

There sees herself : by these congenial forms 

Touch' d and awaken d, with intenser act] 

She bends each nerve, and meditates well-pleased 

Her features in the mirror. For of all 

The inhabitants of earth, to man alone 

Creative Wisdom gave to lift his eye 

To Truth's eternal measures ; thence to frame 

The sacred laws of action and of will, 

Discerning justice from unequal deeds, 

And temperance from folly 



TASTE. 

What then is taste, but these internal powers, 
Active, and strong, and feelingly alive 
To each fine impulse? a discerning sense 
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust 
From things deform'd, or disarranged, or gross 
In species ? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, 
Nor purple state, nor culture, can bestow ; 
But God alone, when first his active hand 
Imprints the secret bias of the soul. 
He, mighty Parent ! wise and just in all, 
Free as the vital breeze, or light of heaven, 
Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain 
Who journeys homeward from a summer day's 



AKENSIDE. 145 

Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils 

And due repose, he loiters to behold 

The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds, 

O'er all the western sky ; full soon, I ween, 

His rude expression and untutor'd airs, 

Beyond the power of language, will unfold 

The form of beauty smiling at his heart, 

How lovely ! how commanding ! But though Heaven 

In every breast hath sown these early seeds 

Of love and admiration, yet in vain, 

Without fair Culture's kind parental aid, 

Without enlivening suns, and genial showers, 

And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope 

The tender plant should rear its blooming head, 

Or yield the harvest promised in its spring. 

Nor yet will every soil with equal stores 

Repay the tiller s labour ; or attend 

His will, obsequious, whether to produce 

The olive or the laurel. Different minds 

Incline to different objects : one pursues 

The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ; 

Another sighs for harmony, and grace, 

And gentlest beauty. Hence, when lightning fires 

The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground, 

When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, 

And Ocean, groaning from its lowest bed, 

Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky; 

Amid the mighty uproar, while below / 

The nations tremble, Shakspeare l looks abroad 

From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys 

The elemental war. But Waller 2 longs, 

All on the margin of some flowery stream, 

To spread his careless limbs amid the cool 

Of plantane shades, and to the listening deer 

1 Shakspeare, the greatest of the English dramatic poets. 

2 Waller, a celebrated English poet, remarkable for the smoothness and sweet- 

ness of his verse. 

K 



146 AKENSIDE. 

The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain 
Resound soft-warbling all the live-long da"y : 
Consenting Zephyr 3 sighs ; the weeping rill 
Joins in his plaint, melodious ; mute the groves ; 
And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn. 
Such, and so various, are the tastes of men. 



THOMAS GRAY 

Was born in London, A. D. 1716. He was educated at Eton, whence 
he proceeded to the university of Cambridge. There he was dis- 
tinguished for his devoted attachment to classical literature, and was 
admired by his friends for his profound learning and exquisite taste. 
Great expectations were formed respecting him, which the publication 
of his odes seemed rather to increase than satisfy. He formed several 
admirable projects, but wanted energy to put them in execution ; a cir- 
cumstance deeply to be lamented, as the few poems he has left us are 
rather specimens of his powers, than works worthy of them. In private 
life, Gray was of the most amiable character ; and his death, which took 
place A. D. 1771, was sincerely lamented by his friends. 

Gray's poems are, principally, his Elegy, quoted in the Introduction, 
and his Odes. Though not distinguished for pathos or sublimity, they 
are lofty, energetic, and harmonious ; they require to be read with atten- 
tion, that their beauty may be appreciated ; but they will well repay the 
toil of a careful perusal. 



THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
A Pindaric Ode. 

I. 

Awake, iEolian l lyre, awake, 
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. 
From Helicon's 2 harmonious springs 
A thousand rills their mazy progress take ; 

3 Zephyr, the west wind. 

1 JEolian. The most celebrated of the Grecian lyrists were of the iEolic branch 

of the Hellenic or Grecian race ; witness Alcaeus, Archilochus, Sappho, &c . 

2 Helicon, a Grecian mountain, dedicated to the Muses. 



GRAY. 147 

The laughing flowers, that round them blow, 

Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 

Now the rich stream of music winds along, 

Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, 

Through verdant vales, and Ceres' 3 golden reign : 

Now rolling down the steep amain, 

Headlong, impetuous, see it pour : 

The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. 

Oh ! sovereign of the willing soul, 

Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, 

Enchanting shell ! the sullen cares, 

And frantic passions, hear thy soft control : 
On Thracias hills the lord of war 
Has curb'd the fury of his car, 
And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command : 
Perching on the sceptred hand 
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather' d king, 
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing : 
Quench' d in dark clouds of slumber lie 
The terror of his beak, and lightning of his eye. 

Thee, the voice, the dance, obey, 

Temper' d to thy warbled lay, 

O'er Idalia's 4 velvet green 

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen, 

On Cytherea'sS day, 

With antic sports and blue-eyed pleasures, 

Frisking light in frolic measures ; 

Now pursuing, now retreating, 

Now in circling troops they meet : 

To brisk notes in cadence beating 

Glance their many-twinkling feet. 

3 Ceres, the goddess that presided over agriculture. 

4 Jdalia, a district in the island of Cyprus, consecrated to Venus. 

5 Cytherea. Venus, the goddess of love, is called Cytherea, from the island 

Cythera, which was dedicated to her. 

K 2 



148 GRAY. 

Slow-melting strains their queen's approach declare : 

Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay, 

With arts sublime, that float upon the air, 

In gliding state she wins her easy way : 

O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move 

The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love. 

II. 

Man's feeble race what ills await, 
Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain, 
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, 

And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate ! 
The fond complaint, my song, disprove, 
And justify the laws of Jove. 
Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse ? 
Night, and all her sickly dews, 
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, 
He gives to range the dreary sky ; 
Till down the eastern cliffs afar, 
Hyperion's 6 march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. 

In climes beyond the solar road, 

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, 

The Muse has broke the twilight gloom, 

To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. 
And oft, beneath the odorous shade 
Of Chili's boundless forests laid, 
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, 
In loose numbers wildly sweet, 
Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. 
Her track, where'er the goddess roves, 
Glory pursue, and generous Shame, 
Th' unconquerable mind, and Freedom's holy flame. 



Hyperion, a Greek epithet of the sun, or rather of the supposed god of the 
sun ; it is almost literally translated by the phrase in Ossian's address to 
the sun, " O thou that rollest above !" 



GRAY. 149 

Woods that wave o'er Delphi's 7 steep, 
Isles that crown th' iEgean 8 deep, 
Fields that cool Ilissus 9 laves, 
Or where Mseander's 10 amber waves 
In lingering labyrinths creep, 
How do your tuneful echoes languish, 
Mute but to the voice of Anguish ? 
Where each old poetic mountain 

Inspiration breathed around ; 
Every shade and hallow' d fountain 

Murmur' d deep a solemn sound ; 
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, 

Left their Parnassus 11 for the Latiani2 plains : 
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-power, 

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 
They sought, Oh, Albion ! next, thy sea-encircled coast. 

III. 

Far from the sun and summer gale, 

In thy green lap was Nature's darling 13 laid, 

What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, 

To him the mighty mother did unveil 
Her awful face : the dauntless child 
Stretch'd forth his little arms and smiled, 
" This pencil take," she said, " whose colours clear 
Richly paint the vernal year. 
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy ! 
This can unlock the gates of joy ; 

7 Delphi, a city of ancient Greece, built on mount Parnassus, and sacred to 

Apollo, the Grecian god of music and poetry. 

8 JEgean; the sea now called the Archipelago. Most of the Grecian lyric 

poets were natives of the islands of the iEgean. 

9 Ilissus, a river of Athens ; its banks were the great resort of the Athenian 

poets and philosophers. 

10 Mceander, a river of Asia Minor, celebrated for the windings of its stream. 

1 1 Parnassus, a Grecian mountain, sacred to the Muses. 

12 Latian, Italian ; Rome was built in that part of Italy called Latium. 

13 Nature's darling, Shakspeare. 



150 GRAY. 

Of horror that and thrilling fears, 

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." 

Nor second he 14 that rode sublime 

Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy, 

The secrets of th' Abyss to spy. 
He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time : 
The living throne, the sapphire blaze, 
Where angels tremble while they gaze, 
He saw ; but blasted with excess of light, 
Closed his eyes in endless night. 
Behold, where Dry den s less presumptuous car, 
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear 
Two coursers of ethereal race 15 , 
With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. 

Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! 

Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er 

Scatters from her pictured urn, 

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn. * 

But, ah ! 'tis heard no more. — 

Oh, lyre divine ! what daring spirit 

Wakes thee now ? though he inherit 

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 

That the Theban eagle 16 bear, 

Sailing with supreme dominion 

Through the azure deep of air : 

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 

Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray 

With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun : 

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way, 

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, 

Beneath the good how far, but far above the great. 

14 he, Milton. 16 Theban eagle. Pindar, the greatest 

15 race. In these lines an effort is of the ancient lyric poets, was a 

made to express the stately march native of Thebes, 

of Dryden's lines. 



GRAY. 151 



ON EDUCATION. 



As sickly plants betray a niggard earth, 

Whose barren bosom starves her generous birth, 

Nor genial warmth, nor genial juice retains 

Their roots to feed, and fill their verdant veins : 

And, as in climes where Winter holds his reign, 

The soil, though fertile, will not teem in vain, 

Forbids her germs to swell, her shades to rise, 

Nor trusts her blossoms to the churlish skies : 

To draw mankind in vain the vital airs, 

Unform'd, unfriended, by those kindly cares, 

That health and vigour to the soul impart, 

Spread the young thought, and warm the opening heart 

So fond instruction on the growing powers 

Of nature idly lavishes her stores, 

If equal justice, with unclouded face, 

Smile not indulgent on the rising race, 

And scatter with a free, though frugal, hand, 

Light golden showers of plenty o'er the land : 

But tyranny has fix'd her empire there, 

To check their tender hopes with chilling fear, 

And blast the blooming promise of the year. 

The spacious animated scene survey, 
From where the rolling orb that gives the day, 
His sable sons with nearer course surrounds, 
To either pole, and life's remotest bounds. 
How rude soe'er the exterior form we find, 
Howe'er opinion tinge the varied mind, 
Alike to all the kind, impartial Heaven 
The sparks of truth and happiness has given : 
With sense to feel, with memory to retain, 
They follow pleasure, and they fly from pain ; 
Their judgment mends the plan their fancy draws, 
Th' event presages, and explores the cause ; 
The soft returns of gratitude they know, 
By fraud elude, by force repel the foe ; 



152 GRAY. 

While mutual wishes mutual woes endear, 
The social smile, and sympathetic tear. 

Say, then, through ages by what fate confined, 
To different climes seem different souls assign d ? 
Here measured laws and philosophic ease 
Fix and improve the polish' d arts of peace. 
There industry and gain their vigils keep, 
Command the winds, and tame th' unwilling deep. 
Here force and hardy deeds of blood prevail ; 
There languid pleasure sighs in every gale. 
Oft o'er the trembling nations from afar 
Has Scythia breathed the living cloud of war; 
And, where the deluge burst, with sweepy sway, 
Their arms, their kings, their gods were roll'd away. 
As oft have issued, host impelling host, 
The blue-eyed myriads from the Baltic coast. 
The prostrate south to the destroyer yields 
Her boasted titles, and her golden fields ; 
With grim delight the brood of winter view 
A brighter day, and heavens of azure hue, 
Scent the new fragrance of the breathing rose, 
And quaff the pendent vintage as it grows. 
Proud of the yoke, and pliant to the rod, 
Why yet does Asia dread a monarch's nod, 
While European freedom still withstands 
Th' encroaching tide, that drowns her lessening lands, 
And sees far off, with an indignant groan, 
Her native plains and empires once her own ? 
Can opener skies and suns of fiercer flame 
O'erpower the fire that animates our frame ; 
As lamp?, that shed at eve a cheerful ray, 
Fade and expire beneath the eye of day ? 
Need we the influence of the northern star, 
To string our nerves and steel our hearts to war ? 
And where the face of nature laughs around, 
Must sick'ning virtue fly the tainted ground ? 



GRAY. 153 

Unmanly thought ! what seasons can control, 

What fancied zone can circumscribe the soul, 

Who, conscious of the source from whence she springs, 

By reason's light, on resolution s wings, 

Spite of her frail companion, dauntless goes 

O'er Lybia's deserts and through Zembla's snows ? 

She bids each slumb'ring energy awake, 

Another touch, another temper take, 

Suspends th' inferior laws that rule our clay ; 

The stubborn elements confess her sway ; 

Their little wants, their low desires, refine, 

And raise the mortal to a height divine. 

Not but the human fabric from the birth 
Imbibes a flavour of its parent earth. 
As various tracts enforce a various toil, 
The manners speak the idiom of their soil. 
An iron race the mountain-cliffs maintain, 
Foes to the gentle genius of the plain : 
For where unwearied sinews must be found, 
With side-long plough to quell the flinty ground, 
To turn the torrent's swift-descending flood, 
To brave the savage rushing from the wood, 
What wonder, if to patient valour train' d, 
They guard with spirit what by strength they gain'd ? 
And while their rocky ramparts round they see, _ 
The rough abode of want and liberty, 
(As lawless force from confidence will grow,) 
Insult the plenty of the vales below ? 
What wonder, in the sultry climes that spread, 
Where Nile, redundant o'er his summer bed, 
From his broad bosom life and verdure flings, 
And broods o'er Egypt with his watery wings, 
If with adventurous oar and ready sail, 
The dusky people drive before the gale ; 
Or on frail floats to neighb'ring cities ride, 
That rise and glitter o'er the ambient tide. 



154 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

Was born A.D. 1731, at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland. 
After having graduated in arts at. the Dublin university, he went to 
Edinburgh for the purpose of studying medicine. After residing there 
about a year, he undertook a pedestrian tour through Europe, and, on 
his return, came to London, determined to seek support by his pen. 
His poem of The Traveller at once raised him into notice, and the 
Deserted Village completely established his fame. For the greater part 
of his life Goldsmith worked for the booksellers, as a mere compiler ; 
and the charms of his style compensate for his numerous deficiencies in 
information. 

Grace, elegance and simplicity, are the characteristics of Goldsmith's 
style ; and many of his works display a rich vein of comic humour. 



THE TRAVELLER. 

Italy. 
Far to the right where Apennine 1 ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountains side, 
"Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
While oft some temple's mould' ring tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in different climes were found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 

1 Apennine, a range of mountains extending through the midst of Italv. 



GOLDSMITH. 155 

While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
And even in penance planning sins anew. 
AU evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date, 
When commerce proudly flourish' d through the state; 
At her command the palace learn' d to rise, 
Again the long-fall' n column sought the skies ; 
The canvass glow'd beyond ev'n nature warm, 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form. 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display' d her sail ; 
While nought remain' d of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : 
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric 2 ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride : 
From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
Processions form'd for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, 
The sports of children satisfy the child ; 

2 plethoric, unhealthily large. 



156 GOLDSMITH. 

Each nobler aim, represt by long control, 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway, 
Defaced by time, and tott'ring in decay, 
There, in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed, 
And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

Switzerland. 

My soul turn from them ; turn we to survey, 

Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 

Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 

And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; 

No product here the barren hills afford, 

But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 

No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 

But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 

No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 

But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, ev'n here, content can spread a charm, 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
Each wish contracting, fits him for the soil : 
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose, 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
Or drives his venturous plough-share to the steep; 



GOLDSMITH. 157 

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, every labour sped, 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; 
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; 
And ev'n those ills that round his mansion rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
And, as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 



HENRY BROOKE 



Was born in Ireland A. D. 1706. He was educated at Trinity College, 
whence he removed at an early age, for the purpose of studying law at 
the Temple. In London he became acquainted with Pope, Swift, and 
other eminent writers; and it is believed that he wrote the poem of 
Universal Beauty at their suggestion. He was also the author of 
Gustavus Vasa and the Fool of Quality. 

Brooke possesses the talent of exquisite versification, but was deficient 
in the higher order of poetic powers. 



UNIVERSAL BEAUTY. 
Wisdom of God in the Creation. 

Like Nature's law, no eloquence persuades, 
The mute harangue our ev ry sense invades ; 



15S . BROOKE. 

The apparent precepts of the Eternal will, 
His every work and every object fill ; 
Round with our eyes his revelation wheels, 
Our every touch his demonstration feels. 
And, O Supreme ! whene'er we cease to know 
Thee, the sole source whence sense and science flow ! 
Then must all faculty, all knowledge fail, 
And more than monster o'er the man prevail. 

Not thus he gave our optics vital glance, 
Amid omniscient art, to search for chance, 
Blind to the charms of Nature's beauteous frame ; 
Nor made our organ vocal to blaspheme ; 
Nor thus he will'd the creatures of his nod, 
And made the mortal to unmake his God ; 
Breathed on the globe, and brooded o'er the wave, 
And bid the wise obsequious world conceive ; 
Spoke into being myriads, myriads rise, 
And, with young transport, gaze the novel skies ; 
Glance from the surge, beneath the surface scud, 
Or cleave enormous the reluctant flood ; 
Or roll, vermicular, their wanton maze, 
And the bright path with wild meanders glaze ; 
Frisk in the vale, or o'er the mountains bound, 
Or in huge gambols shake the trembling ground ; 
Swarm in the beam, or spread the plumy sail — 
The plume creates, and then directs the gale ; 
While active gaiety, and aspect bright, 
In each expressive, sums up all delight. 



159 



Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON 

Was born at Lichfield in Staffordshire, A.D. 1709. He was sent to 
Oxford ; but, after a residence of three years, he quitted the university 
without taking a degree. Having vainly tried to support himself by 
teaching a school, he came to London, determined to devote himself to 
literature. His first publication, London, an imitation of the third satire 
of Juvenal, produced more fame than profit ; and he principally main- 
tained himself by writing for the magazines and other periodicals. By 
degrees his talents became known: and, after the publication of the 
Rambler and the great English Dictionary, he found himself indisputably 
at the head of his literary contemporaries. He died A. D. 1784. 

So little of Dr. Johnson's fame rests on his poetry, that it is scarcely 
noticed in estimating his character ; it displays, however, very vigorous 
conceptions of character, and a strong manly power of expression. 






THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 

WOLSEY. 

In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, 

Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand : 

To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign, 

Through him the rays of regal bounty shine ; 

Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows, 

His smile alone security bestows ; 

Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, 

Claim leads to claim, and power advances power ; 

Till conquest, unresisted, ceased to please, 

And rights submitted left him none to seize. 

At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state 

Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. 

Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger s eye, 

His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly ; 

Now drops at once the pride of awful state, 

The golden canopy, the glittering plate, 

The regal palace, the luxurious board, 

The liveried army, and the menial lord. 



160 JOHNSON. 

With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd, 
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest : 
Grief aids disease, remember d folly stings, 
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 

Charles XII 1 . 

On what foundation stands the warriors pride, 

How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide : 

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 

No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; 

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 

Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; 

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 

Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, 

And one capitulate, and one resign ; 

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; 

" Think nothing gain'd," he cries, " till nought remain, 

On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 

And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 

The march begins in military state, 

And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 

Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 

And Winter barricades the realms of Frost ; 

He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay : — 

Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day : 

The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, 

And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 

Condemn' d, a needy suppliant, to wait, 

While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 

But did not Chance at length her error mend ? 

Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 

1 Charles XII. He was king of Sweden, and performed many exploits of heroic 
daring. Having invaded Russia, he was totally defeated at the battle of 
Pultowa, and forced to seek refuge in Turkey. He Mas afterwards killed at 
the siege of a little fort in Norway. 






JOHNSON. 161 

Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
He left a name, at which the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale^ 

Conclusion. 

Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find? 

Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind ? 

Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 

Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate ? 

Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, 

No cries invoke the mercies of the skies ? 

Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain, 

Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain. 

Still raise for good the supplicating voice, 

But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. 

Safe in His pow'r, whose eyes discern afar 

The secret ambush of a specious pray'r ; 

Implore His aid, in His decisions rest, 

Secure, whate'er He gives, He gives the best. 

Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, 

And strong devotion to the skies aspires, 

Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, 

Obedient passions, and a will resign' d ; 

For love, which scarce collective man can fill ; 

For patience, sov' reign o'er transmuted ill ; 

For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, 

Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat : 

These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain, 

These goods He grants, who grants the pow'r to gain ; 

With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, 

And makes the happiness she does not find. 



162 



THOMAS WARTON 

Was born at 'Basingstoke, in 1728. He was educated at Oxford, and de- 
fended that university, when attacked by Mr. Mason, in a poem of great 
spirit and promise. After some other works had made him distinguished, 
he was elected Professor of Poetry, and, soon after, was appointed Poet 
Laureate. He died A. D. 1790. 

Warton ranks only among the minor poets ; but among them he holds 
a conspicuous place for spirited description and propriety of language. 



ODE. 

The Crusade. 

Bound for holy Palestine, 

Nimbly we brush' d the level brine, 

All in azure steel array' d ; 

O'er the wave our weapons play'd, 

And made the dancing billows glow ; 

High upon the trophied prow, : /* 

Many a warrior-minstrel swung 

His sounding harp, and boldly sung : 

" Syrian virgins, wail and weep, 
English Richard l ploughs the deep ! 
Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy 
From distant towers, with anxious eye, 
The radiant range of shield and lance 
Down Damascus' hills advance : 
From Sion's turrets, as afar 
Ye ken the march of Europe's war ! 
Saladin 2 , thou paynim 3 king, 
From Albion's isle revenge we bring ! 
On Aeon's 4 spiry citadel, 
Though to the gale thy banners swell, 

1 Richard, Richard I., surnamed, from his valour, Cceur de Lion. 

2 Saladin, the chief of the Mohammedans that defended Palestine against the 

Crusaders. 

3 paynim, pagan ; it means, here, the professor of a false religion. 

4 Aeon, anciently called Ptolemais, now St. Jean d'Acre. 



WARTON. 163 

Pictured with the silver moon ; 

England shall end thy glory soon ! 

In vain, to break our firm array, 

Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray : 

Those sounds our rising fury fan : 

English Richard in the van, 

On to victory we go, — 

A vaunting infidel the foe ! " 

Blondel 5 led the tuneful band, 
And swept the lyre with glowing hand. 
Cyprus 6 , from her rocky mound, 
And Crete 6 , with piny verdure crown' d, 
Far along the smiling main 
Echoed the prophetic strain. 

Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth, 
That gave a murder d Saviour birth ! 
Then, with ardour fresh endued, 
Thus the solemn song renew' d : - 

" Lo, the toilsome voyage past, 
Heaven's favour'd hills appear at last ! 
Object of our holy vow, 
We tread the Tyrian valleys now. 
From Carmel's 7 almond-shaded steep 
We feel the cheering fragrance creep : 
O'er Engaddi's8 shrubs of balm 
Waves the date-empurpled palm ; 
See Lebanon's 9 aspiring head 
Wide his immortal umbrage spread ! 
Hail Calvary 10 , the mountain hoar, 
Wet with our Redeemer's gore ! 
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn, 
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn ; 

5 Blondel, the faithful minstrel of king 9 Lebanon, a chain of mountains north 

Richard. of Palestine. 

6 Cyprus, Crete, islands in the Levant. 10 Calvary, a part of the chain of Mount 

7 Carmel, a chain of mountains in Moriah, near Jerusalem, where 

Palestine. Christ was crucified. 

8 Engaddi, a mountain of Palestine. 

L 2 



164 WARTON. 

Your ravish' d honours to restore, 

Fearless we climb this hostile shore ! 

And thou, the sepulchre of God, 

By mocking pagans rudely trod, 

Bereft of every awful rite, 

And quench' d thy lamps that beam'd so bright : 

For thee, from Britain's distant coast, 

Lo, Richard leads his faithful host ! 

Aloft in his heroic hand, 

Blazing like the beacon's brand, 

O'er the far-affrighted fields, 

Resistless Kaliburn 11 he wields. 

Proud Saracen, pollute no more 

The shrines by martyrs built of yore ! 

From each wild mountain's trackless crown 

In vain thy gloomy castles frown : 

Thy battering-engines, huge and high, 

In vain our steel-clad steeds defy ; 

And, rolling in terrific state, 

On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate. 

When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp, 

Amid the moonlight's vapours damp, 

Thy necromantic forms, in vain, 

Haunt us on the tented plain : 

We bid the spectre-shapes avaunt, 

Ashtarothis and Termagaunt 13 ! 

With many a demon, pale of hue, 

Doom'd to drink the bitter dew, 

That drops from Macon's 1 4 sooty tree, 

'Mid the dread grove of ebony. 

Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell, 

The Christians' holy courage quell. 

11 Kaliburn, the celebrated sword of the British king, Arthur, said to have come 
into the possession of King Richard, and to have been given by him, as a 
present of inestimable value, to Tancred, king of Sicily. 
' 12 Aslitaroth, a Syrian goddess. 

13 Termagaunt. The ignorant old chroniclers believed that the Mohammedans 

were idolaters, and that they worshipped some deity named Termagaunt.. 

14 Macon. This alludes to an Oriental superstition respecting a poisonous tree. 



WARTON. 165 

" Salem, in ancient majesty- 
Arise, and lift thee to the sky ! 
Soon on the battlements divine 
Shall wave the badge of Constantine. 
Ye barons, to the sun unfold 
Our cross, with crimson wove and gold ! " 



WILLIAM COWPER 



Was born at Berkhamstead, Herts, A. D. 1731. He was educated at 
Westminster School ; but, from his constitutional infirmity, was unable 
to join in the rough sports, or bear the rude jokes, of his school-fellows. 
From thence he removed to the Temple, to qualify himself for the office 
of Clerk to the House of Lords, — an appointment that had been obtained 
for him. His great timidity prevented him from accepting the office ; 
and he subsequently fell into a deplorable state of mental debility. On 
his recovery, he removed to the village of Olney, where the rest of his 
life was spent in retirement. His first volume of poems did not attract 
much attention ; but the publication of The Task established his poetical 
fame. In the latter part of his life, Cowper's despondency shattered his 
intellects, and he fell into a state of absolute despair. He died of dropsy, 
A. D. 1800. 

The poetry of Cowper exhibits a strange mixture of sombre melan- 
choly and Stoical ^morality, with playful humour, bright wit, and fasci* 
nating ease. He is, perhaps, too stern a moralist; but there is an earnest 
sincerity in his manner, which proves that he wrote from the convictions 
of his own mind, and with an anxious desire to promote the best interests 
of mankind. 



THE WINTER EVENING. 

Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, 

That, with its wearisome but needful length, 

Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 

Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright ; — 

He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 

With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks 



166 COWPER. 

News from all nations lumbering at his back. 
True to his charge, the close-pack' d load behind, 
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 
Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; 
And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on. 
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch ! 
Cold, and yet cheerful : messenger of grief 
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, 
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
With tears, that trickled down the writers' cheeks 
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, 
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, 
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
But O the important budget ! usher' d in 
With such heart-shaking music, who can say 
What are its tidings ? Have our troops awaked ? 
Or do they still, as if with opium driigg'd, 
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave ? 
Is India free ? And does she wear her plumed 
And jewell'd turban, with a smile of peace, 
Or do we grind her still ? The grand debate, 
The popular harangue, the tart reply, 
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, 
And the loud laugh — I long to know them all ; ] 
I burn to set the imprison' d wranglers free, 
And give them voice and utterance once again. 
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 
That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
Not such his evening, who with shining face 



COWPER. 167 

Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed 

And bored with elbow-points through both his sides, 

Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage ; 

Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, 

And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 

Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage ; 

Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. 

This folio of four pages, happy work ! 

Which not ev'n critics criticise ; that holds 

Inquisitive attention ; while I read, 

Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, 

Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break ; 

What is it, but a map of busy life, 

Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns ? 

Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge 

That tempts ambition. On the summit see 

The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them ! At his heels, 

Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 

And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, 

And wins them but to lose them in his turn. 

Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft 

Meanders lubricate the course they take ; 

The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved 

To engross a moment's notice, and yet begs, 

Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, 

However trivial alt that he conceives. 

Sweet bashfulness ! it claims at least this praise ; 

The dearth of information and good sense 

That it foretels us, always comes to pass. 

Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; 

There forests of no meaning spread the page, [ 

In which all comprehension wanders lost ; 

While fields of pleasantry amuse us there, 

With merry descants on a nation's woes. 

The rest appears a wilderness of strange 



168 COWPER. 

But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks, 

And lilies for the brows of faded age, 

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, 

Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder d of their sweets, 

Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, 

Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, 

Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits, 

And Katterfelto 1, with his hair on end 

At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. 



PRAISE OF THE COUNTRY. 

Man in society is like a flower 

Blown in its native bed : 'tis there alone 

His faculties, expanded in full bloom, 

Shine out ; there only reach their proper use. 

But man, associated and leagued with man, 

By regal warrant, or self-join d by bond 

For interest-sake, or swarming into clans 

Beneath one head for purposes of war, 

Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound 

And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, 

Fades rapidly ; and, by compression marrd, 

Contracts defilement not to be endured. 

Hence charter d boroughs are such public plagues 

And burghers, men immaculate perhaps 

In all their private functions, once combined, 

Become a loathsome body, only fit 

For dissolution, hurtful to the main. 

Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin 

Against the charities of domestic life, 

Incorporated, seem at once to lose 

Their nature ; and disclaiming all regard 

1 Katterfelto, a celebrated juggler. 



COWPER. 169 

For mercy and the common rights of man, 
Build factories with blood, conducting trade 
At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe 
Of innocent commercial justice red. 
Hence too the field of glory, as the world 
Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, 
With all its majesty of thundering pomp, 
Enchanting music and immortal wreaths, 
Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is taught 
On principle, where foppery atones 
For folly, gallantry for every vice. 

But slighted as it is, and by the great 
Abandon'd, and, which still I more regret, 
Infected with the manners and the modes 
It knew not once, the country wins me still. 
I never framed a wish, or form'd a plan, 
That flatter d me with hopes of earthly bliss, 
But there I laid the scene. There early stray' d 
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice 
Had found me, or the hope of being free. 
My very dreams were rural ; rural too 
The first-born efforts of my youthful Muse, 
Sportive and jingling her poetic bells, 
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. 
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned 
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats 
Fatigued me ; never weary of the pipe 
Of Tityrus 1 , assembling, as he sang, 
The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech. 
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms : 
New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd 
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue 
To speak its excellence. I danced for joy. 
I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age 
As twice seven years, his beauties had then first 

1 Tityrus, the name of a shepherd in one of Virgil's pastorals. 



70 COWPER. 

Engaged my wonder ; and admiring still, 

And still admiring, with regret supposed 

The joy half lost, because not sooner found. 

Thee, too, enamour d of the life I loved, 

Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit 

Determined, and possessing it at last 

With transports, such as favour d lovers feel, 

I studied, prized, and wish'd that I had known, 

Ingenious Cowley 2 ! and, though now reclaimed 

By modern lights from an erroneous taste, 

I cannot but lament thy splendid wit 

Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. 

I still revere thee, courtly though retired ; 

Though stretch' d at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers, 

Not unemploy'd ; and finding rich amends 

For a lost world, in solitude and verse. 

'Tis born with all : the love of Nature's works 

Is an ingredient in the compound man, 

Infused at the creation of the kind. 

And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout 

Discriminated each from each, by strokes 

And touches of his hand, with so much art 

Diversified, that two were never found 

Twins at all points — yet this obtains in all, 

That all discern a beauty in his works, 

And all can taste them : minds, that have been form'd 

And tutor d, with a relish more exact, 

But none without some relish, none unmoved. 

It is a flame, that dies not even there, 

Where nothing feeds it : neither business, crowds, 

Nor habits of luxurious city-life, 

Whatever else they smother of true worth 

In human bosoms, quench it or abate. 

The villas, with which London stands begirt, 

Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, 

2 Cowley, an English poet, whose excellencies are spoiled by his affectation. 



COWPER. 171 

Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, 

The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer 

The citizen, and brace his languid frame ! 

Ev'n in the stifling bosom of the town, 

A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms, 

That soothe the rich possessor ; much consoled, 

That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, 

Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the wall 

He cultivates. These serve him with a hint 

That Nature lives ; that sight-refreshing green 

Is still the livery she delights to wear, 

Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. 

What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, 

The prouder sashes fronted with a range 

Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weeds, 

The Frenchman's darling ? Are they not all proofs 

That man, immured in cities, still retains 

His inborn inextinguishable thirst 

Of rural scenes, compensating his loss 

By supplemental shifts, the best he may ? 

The most unfurnish'd with the means of life, 

And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds, 

To range the fields and treat their lungs with air, 

Yet feel the burning instinct : over-head 

Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, 

And water d duly. There the pitcher stands, 

A fragment, arid the spoutless teapot there ; 

Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets 

The country, with what ardour he contrives 

A peep at nature, when he can no more. 

Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease, 
And contemplation, heart-consoling joys 
And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode 
Of multitudes unknown ; hail, rural life ! 

3 fragrant weed, mignonette. 



172 COWPER. 

Address himself who will to the pursuit 

Of honours, or emolument, or fame ; 

I shall not add myself to such a chase, 

Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. 

Some must be great. Great offices will have 

Great talents : and God gives to every man 

The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, 

That lifts him into life, and lets him fall * 

Just in the niche he was ordaind to fill. 

To the deliverer of an injured land 

He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart 

To feel, and courage to redress, her wrongs ; 

To monarchs, dignity ; to judges, sense ; 

To artists, ingenuity and skill ; 

To me, an unambitious mind, content 

In the low vale of life, that early felt 

A wish for ease and leisure, and, ere long, 

Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd. 



ROBERT BURNS 



Was born at Ayr, in the west of Scotland, A.D. 1759. His parents 
were of very humble rank, and he was brought up to rustic employ- 
ment. He published his first volume of poems by subscription, hoping 
that the profits would pay his passage to Jamaica ; but Dr. Blacklock, 
struck by their merits, persuaded Burns to relinquish the design, and 
visit Edinburgh. Here he was received with the greatest hospitality, 
and obtained a large sum by the second edition of his poems, and also 
the situation of an exciseman. But the habits of intemperate indulgence, 
which Burns had unfortunately acquired, proved his ruin. He wrote 
many beautiful songs, but became incapable of the exertion which a 
poem worthy of his fame and his abilities would have required. He 
died A.D. 1796. 

The poems of Burns display great pathos, humour, and a vigour of 
thought rarely surpassed ; though written for the most part in a provin- 
cial dialect, the style is polished, and the language selected with great 
care and discrimination. 



BURNS. 173 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

November chill blaws 1 loud wi' angry sugh, 

The short' ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae 2 the pleugh 3 < 

The black' ning trains o' craws 4 to their repose ; 
The toil-worn cotter 5 frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil 6 is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee 7 things, todlin 8 , stacher 9 through 

To meet their dad, wi' 10 fiichterin' u noise an" glee. 
His wee bit ingle 12 , blinking bonily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wine's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on Ms knee, 

Does a' u his weary carking 15 cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. 

Belyve 16 the elder bairns 17 come drappin' 18 in, 
At sendee out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' 19 the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 20 rin 23 - 

A cannie 22 errand to a neebor 23 town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e 24 , 

1 blaivs, blows. 13 hlinkin', sliming at intervals. 

2 frae, from. 14 a', all. 

3 pleugh, plough. 15 carking, consuming. 

4 craws, crows.- 16 belyve, by-and-by. 

5 cotter, cottager. 17 bairns, children. 

6 moil, labour. 18 drappin', dropping. 

7 wee, little. 19 ca\ drive. 

8 todlin, tottering in their walk. 20 tentie, cautious. 

9 stacker, stagger. 21 tin, run, 

10 wi', with. 22 cannie, skilful, dexterous. 

11 fiichterin' fluttering. 23 neebor, neighbour, neighbouring. 

12 ingle, fire-place. 24 e'e, eye. 



174 BURNS. 

Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw 25 new gown, 
Or deposit her sair-won 26 penny fee 2 7, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy, unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, 

An each for others weelfare kindly spiers 28 ; 
The social hours, swift-wing d, unnoticed fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos 29 that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an her sheers, 

Gars 30 auld claes 31 look amaist 32 as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their masters and their mistress's command, 

The younkers a are warned to obey ; 
" An' mind their labours wi' an eydent 33 hand, 

An ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk 34 or play: 
An', Oh, be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang 35 astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might ; 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright !" 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha 36 kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 
With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins 3 ? is afraid to speak; 
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae 38 wild worthless rake. 

25 braw, brave, handsome. 32 amaist, almost. 

26 sair-won, sorely won, earned with 33 eydent, diligent. 

difficulty. 34 jauk, jest. 

27 penny-fee, wages. 35 gang, go. 

28 spiers, asks. 36 wJia, who. 

29 uncos, news. 37 haffiins, partly. 

30 gars, makes. 38 nae, no. 

31 claes, clothes. 



BURNS. 175 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben 39 ; 

A strappan 40 youth, he takes the mothers eye; 
Blythe 41 Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta'en; 

The father cracks 42 of horses, pleughs, and kye 43 . 
The youngsters artless heart o'ernows wi' joy, 

But blate 44 and laithfu' 45 , scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu an' sae grave, 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave 46 . 

O, happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare, — 
" If Heaven a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In others' arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale." 

Is there in human form, that bears a heart, — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can with studied, sly, insnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth 4 7, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ! 

But now the supper crowns their simple board ! 
The halesome 48 parritch 49 , chief o' Scotia's food : 



39 hen, into the parlour. 45 laithfu,', reluctant. 

40 strappan, tall and handsome. 46 the lave, the rest, the others. 

41 blythe, joyously. 47 ruth, mercy, kind feeling. 

42 cracks, converses. 48 halesome, wholesome. 

43 kye, kine, cows. 49 parritch, oatmeal-pudding. 

44 Mate, bashful. 



176 BURNS. 

The soupe 50 their only hawkie 51 does afford, 
That 'yont 52 the hallan 53 snugly chows 54 her cud : 

The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd 55 kebbuck 56 , fell 5 ?, 

An' aft he's press' d, an' aft he ca's it good ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond 58 auld 59 , sin' 60 lint was i' the hell 61 . 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big Ha' -Bible 61 , ance 62 his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart 63 haffets 64 wearin' thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales 65 a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God," he says wi' solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's 66 wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs' 66 , worthy of the name, 
Or noble Elgin 66 beats the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
How Abraham was the friend of God on high ; 

50 soupe, sauce, milk. 60 lint was in the hell, flax was in 

51 hawhie, a pet-name for a cow. blossom. 

52 'yont, beyond. 61 Ha' 1 -Bible, the 'great Bible kept in 

53 hallan, a turf-seat outside a cottage. the hall. 

54 choivs, chews. 62 ance, once. 

55 weel-hain'd, carefully preserved. 63 lyart, gray. 

56 kebbuck, a cheese. ' 64 hajfets, the temples, the sides of 

57 fell, biting to the taste. the head. 

58 towmond, twelve months. 65 wales, chooses. 

. 59 sin, since. 66 Dundee, Martyrs', Elgin, the names 

of Scottish psalm-tunes. 



BURNS. 177 

Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard 6 7 did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heavens avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he 68 , who lone in Patmos 69 banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 

command. 

Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear, 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! 

67 royal bard, David, 68 he, Saint John. 

69 Patmos, an island in the Archipelago, where Saint John is supposed to 
have written his Revelation. 



178 BURNS. 

The Pow'r incensed, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole 70 ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well-pleased, the language of the soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man 's the noblest work of God ; " 
And certes7l, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind : 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human-kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand, a wall of fire, around their much-loved isle. 

70 sacerdotal stole, priestly vestment. 71 certes, certainly. 



BURNS. 179 

O Thou ! tv ho pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd through Wallace's 72 undaunted hearty 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
O, never, never, Scotia's realm desert : 

But still the patriot and the patriot bard 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods, 

That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream ; 
Beneath a craigy 1 steep, a bard, 

Laden with years, and meikle 2 pain, 
In loud lament bewail' d his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik 3 , 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tuned his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting through their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter' d birds, that faintly sing, 

The relics of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods, that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 

72 Wallace. Sir William Wallace, the celebrated Scottish patriot. 
1 craigy, craggy, precipitous. 2 meikle, much. 3 aik, oak. 

M 2 



180 BURNS. 

A few short months, and, glad and gay, 
Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 

But nocht 4 , in all revolving time, 
Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae summer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun 5 lie before the storm, 

And ithers 6 plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade 7 o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last (the sum of a' my griefs I) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The fiow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay : 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged kens, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ! 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 

4 nocht, nothing. 7 lade, load. 

5 maun, must. 8 ken, sight. 

6 ithers, others. J 



BURNS. is: 

And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from Fortune's mirkest9 gloom. 

" In poverty's low, barren vale, 

Thick mists obscure involved me round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found. 
Thou found' st me like the morning sun, 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" Oh ! why has worth so short a date, 

While villains ripen grey with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ! 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft, 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride, 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen 10 ; 
The monarch may forget the crown, 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child, 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a that thou hast done for me!" 

9 mirkest, darkest. 10 yestreen, yesterday-evening. 



182 



JAMES BEATTIE 

Was born in Scotland, A.D. 1735. He received his education at Ma- 
wschal College, Aberdeen, and became the Professor of Moral Philosophy 
in that university. He rose into eminence by the publication of his Essay 
on Truth, in which he successfully exposed the fallacies of Hume and 
other sceptical writers. Shortly after appeared the Minstrel, the most 
celebrated of his poetical compositions. His later days were imbittered 
by affliction for the loss of his sons, youths of great promise. He died 
at Aberdeen A.D. 1803. 

Dr. Beattie is a respectable, rather than a great poet ; but his works 
display great tenderness of feeling, and amiability of temper. 



A POET'S CHILDHOOD. 

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy. 
Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye. 
Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude l nor toy, 
Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy ; 
Silent when glad ; affectionate, though shy ; 
And now his look was most demurely sad, 
And now he laugh' d aloud, yet none knew why. 
The neighbours stared and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad ; 
Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. 

But why should I his childish feats display ? 
Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled ; 
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray 
Of squabbling imps 2 ; but to the forest sped, 
Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head, 
Or where the maze of some bewilder'd stream 
To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, 
There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, 
Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team. 

Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, 
To him nor vanity nor joy could bring : 

1 gaude, any thing gaudy. 2 imps, mischievous children. 



BEATTIE. 183 

His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would bleed 
To work the woe of any living thing, 
By trap or net, by arrow or by sling ; 
These he detested; those he scorn' d to wield: 
He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, 
Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field, 
And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield. 

Lo ! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves 
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ; 
And sees, on high, amidst th" encircling groves, 
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine ; 
While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join, 
And echo swells the chorus to the skies. 
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign 
For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies ? 
Ah, no ! he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. 

And oft he traced the uplands to survey, 
When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, 
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey, 
And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn : 
Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn, 
Where twilight loves to linger for a while ; 
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, 
And villager abroad at early toil : 
But, lo ! the sun appears ! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile. 

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, 
When all in mist the world below was lost — 
What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime, 
Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, 
And view th' enormous waste of vapour, tost 
In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, 
Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd ! 
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, 
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound ! 



184 BEATTIE. 

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, 
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. 
In darkness and in storm he found delight ; 
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene, 
The southern sun diffused his dazzling shene. 
Ev'n sad vicissitude amused his soul ; 
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, 
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, 
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control. 



THE SAGE. 

At early dawn the youth his journey took, 
And many a mountain pass'd and valley wide. 
Then reach'd the wild, where, in a flowery nook, 
And seated on a mossy stone, he spied 
An ancient man ; his harp lay him beside, 
A stag sprang from the pasture at his call, 
And, kneeling, lick'd the wither' d hand that tied 
A wreath of woodbine round his antlers tall, 
And hung his lofty neck with many a floweret small. 

And now the hoary sage arose, and saw 
The wanderer approaching : innocence 
Smiled on his glowing cheek, but modest awe 
Depress' d his eye, that fear'd to give offence. 
" Who art thou, courteous stranger ? and from whence ? 
Why roam thy steps to this sequester' d dale ?" 
" A shepherd boy," the youth replied, " far hence 
My habitation ; hear my artless tale, 
Nor levity nor falsehood shall thine ear assail. 

" Late as I roam'd, intent on Nature's charms, 
I reach'd at eve this wilderness profound, 
And, leaning where yon oak expands her arms, 
Heard these rude cliffs thine awful voice rebound, 



BEATTIE. 185 

(For in thy speech I recognise the sound.) 
You mourn'd for ruin'd man, and virtue lost, 
And seem'd to feel of keen remorse the wound, 
Pondering on former days by guilt engross'd, 
Or in the giddy storm of dissipation toss'd. 

" But say, in courtly life, can craft he learn' d, 
Where knowledge opens and exalts the soul ? 
Where fortune lavishes her gifts unearn'd, 
Can selfishness the liberal heart control ? 
Is glory there achieved by arts, as foul 
As those that felons, fiends, and furies plan ? 
Spiders insnare, snakes poison, tigers prowl : 
Love is the god-like attribute of man ; 
O teach a simple youth this mystery to scan. 

" Or else the lamentable strain disclaim, 
And give me back the calm contented mind, 
Which, late, exulting, view'd in Nature's frame, 
Goodness untainted, wisdom unconfined, 
Grace, grandeur and utility combined ; 
Restore those tranquil days, that saw me still 
Well pleased with all, but most with human kind ; 
When fancy roam'd through Nature's works at will, 
Uncheck'd by cold distrust, and uninform'd of ill." 

" Wouldst thou," the sage replied, " in peace return 
To the gay dreams of fond romantic youth, 
Leave me to hide, in this remote sojourn, 
From every gentle ear the dreadful truth ; 
For if my desultory strain with ruth 
And indignation make thine eyes o'erflow, 
Alas ! what comfort could thy anguish soothe, 
Should'st thou th' extent of human folly know ! 
Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to woe. 

" But let untender thoughts afar be driven, 
Nor venture to arraign the dread decree ; 



186 BEATTIE. 

For know, to man, as candidate for heaven, 
The voice of the Eternal said, Be free ; 
And this divine prerogative to thee 
Does virtue, happiness, and heaven convey ; 
For virtue is the child of liberty, 
And happiness of virtue ; nor can they 
Be free to keep the path who are not free to stray. 

" Yet leave me not. I would allay that grief, 
Which else might thy young virtue overpower, 
And in thy converse I shall find relief, 
When the dark shades of melancholy lower ; 
For solitude has many a dreary hour, 
Ev'n when exempt from grief, remorse, and pain : 
Come often then, for, haply in my bower, 
Amusement, knowledge, wisdom, thou may'st gain , 
If I one soul improve, I have not lived in vain." 

And now, at length, to Edwin's ardent gaze, 
The muse of history unrols her page, 
But few, alas ! the scenes her art displays, 
To charm his fancy, or his heart engage. 
Here chiefs their thirst of power in blood assuage, 
And straight their flames with tenfold fierceness burn ; 
Here smiling virtue prompts the patriot's rage, 
But, lo ! ere long, is left alone to mourn, 
And languish in the dust, and clasp th' abandon'd urn ! 
****** 

Enraptured by the hermit's strain, the youth 
Proceeds the path of science to explore ; 
And now, expanded to the beams of truth, * 
New energies and charms, unknown before, 
His mind discloses. Fancy now no more 
Wantons on fickle pinion through the skies ; 
But, fix'd in aim, and conscious of her power, 
Aloft from cause to cause exults to rise, 
Creation's blended stores arranging as she flies. 



187 



GEORGE CRABBE 

Was bom at Aldborough in Suffolk, A. D. 1754. He was destined for 
the medical profession : but not finding it suited to his disposition, he 
repaired to London, where he had the good fortune to find a friend in 
the celebrated Edmund Burke. In 1781 he published The Library, and 
soon after The Village, poems which at once established his fame. He 
afterwards entered into holy orders, and devoted himself to the duties of 
his sacred profession. After the lapse of more than twenty years, he 
again appeared before the public in 1807. In 1819 his last work, The 
Tales of the Hall, was published. Crabbe's innocent and useful life 
was spent in his parish of Trowbridge, where he was admired as a poet, 
beloved as a friend, revered as a divine, and respected as a man. He 
died A.D. 1832, sincerely and universally regretted. 

Crabbe is, in every respect, a truly original writer. He is the faithful 
portrait-painter of humble life, in all its variety and detail. He pos- 
sesses vigorous conception, great pathos, and a vividness of delineation 
that convinces us at once of his truth and his power. 



AN ENGLISH PEASANT. 
[From the Parish Register.] 

To pomp and pageantry in nought allied, 
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. 
Noble lie was, contemning all things mean, 
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene : 
Of no mans presence Isaac felt afraid, 
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay' d : 
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace ; 
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face ; 
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved, 
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved : 
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd, 
And, with the firmest, had the fondest mind : 
Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on, 
And gave allowance where he needed none ; 



188 CRABBE. 

Good he refused with future ill to buy, 

Nor knew a joy that caused reflections sigh ; 

A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast 

No envy stung, no jealousy distress' d ; 

(Bane of the poor ! it wounds their weaker mind, ' 

To miss one favour which their neighbours find :) 

Yet far was he from stoic pride removed ; 

He felt humanely, and he warmly loved : 

I mark'd his action when his infant died, 

And his old neighbour for offence was tried ; 

The still tears, stealing down that furrow' d cheek, 

Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak. 

If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride, 

Who, in their base contempt, the great deride ; 

Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed, 

If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed ; 

Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew 

None his superior, and his equals few : 

But if that spirit in his soul had place, 

It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace ; 

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd, 

In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train d ; 

Pride in the power that guards his country's coast, 

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; 

Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied, 

In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride. 

He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim ; 
Christian and countryman was all with him : 
True to his church he came ; no Sunday-shower 
Kept him at home in that important hour ; 
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect, 
By the strong glare of their new light direct ; 
" On hope in mine own sober light I gaze, 
But should be blind and lose it in your blaze." 

In times severe, when many a sturdy swain 
Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain ; 



CRABBE. 189 

Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide, 

And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 

******* 

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, 
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there ; 
I see no more those white locks, thinly spread 
Round the bald polish of that honour' d head ; 
No more that awful glance on playful wight, 
Compel! d to kneel and tremble at the sight, 
To fold his fingers, all in dread the while, 
Till Mister Ashford soften' d to a smile ; 
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, 
Nor the pure faith (to give it force,) are there : 
But he is bless'd, and I lament no more, 
A wise good man contented to be poor. 



THE PATRONIZED BOY. 

[From Tales of the Hall.] 

This noble lord was once disposed to try, 
And weigh the worth of each new luxury ; 
Now, at a certain time, in pleasant mood, 
He tried the luxury of doing good ; 
For this he chose a widow's handsome boy, 
Whom he would first improve, and then employ. 
The boy was gentle, modest, civil, kind, 
But not for bustling through the world design'd : 
Reserved in manner, with a little gloom, 
Apt to retire, but never to assume ; 
Possess'd of pride that he could not subdue, 
Although he kept his origin in view. 
Him sent my lord to school, and this became 
A theme for praise, and gave his lordship fame ; 
But when the boy was told how great his debt, 
He proudly ask'd, " Is it contracted yet?" 



190 CRABBE. 

With care he studied, and with some success ; 
His patience great, but his acquirements less ; 
Yet when he heard that Charles would not excel, 
His lordship answerd, with a smile, " 'tis well ; 
Let him proceed and do the best he can, 
I want no pedant, but a useful man." 

The speech was heard, and praise was amply dealt, 
His lordship felt it, and he said he felt, — 
" It is delightful," he observed, " to raise 
And foster merit," — it is more than praise. 

Five years at school th' industrious boy had pass'd, 

" And what," was whisper d, " will be done at last ?" 

My lord was troubled, for he did not mean 

To have his bounty watch' d and overseen ; 

Bounty that sleeps, when men applaud no more 

The generous act that waked their praise before ; 

The deed was pleasant while the praise was new, 

But none the progress would with wonder view : 

It was a debt contracted ; he who pays 

A debt is just, but must not look for praise : 

The deed that once had fame must still proceed, 

Though fame no more proclaims " how great the deed !' 

The boy is taken from his mother's side, 

And he who took him must be now his guide. 

But this, alas ! instead of bringing fame, 

A tax, a trouble, to my lord became. 

" The boy is dull you say, why then by trade, 
By law, by physic, nothing can be made ; 
If a small living, — mine are both too large, 
And then the college is a cursed charge : 
The sea is open ; should he there display 
Signs of dislike, he cannot run away." 

Now Charles, who acted no heroic part, 
And felt no seaman's glory warm his heart* 



CRABBE. 191 

Refused the offer. Anger touch' d my lord : 
" He does not like it — good, upon my word ! — 
If I at college place him, he will need 
Supplies for ever, and will not succeed ; 
Doubtless in me 'tis duty to provide, 
Not for his comfort only, hut his pride, — 
Let him to sea !" — He heard the words again, 
With promise join'd — with threat' ning ; all in vain : 
Charles had his own pursuits ; for aid to these 
He had been thankful, and had tried to please ; 
But urged again, as meekly as a saint, 
He humbly begg'd to stay at home and paint. 
" Yes, pay some dauber, that this stubborn fool 
May grind his colours, and may boast his school." 

As both persisted, — " Choose, good sir, your way," 
The peer exclaim'd, " I have no more to say. 
I seek your good, but I have no command - 
Upon your will, nor your desire withstand." 

Resolved and firm, yet dreading to offend, 

Charles pleaded genius with his noble friend : 

" Genius ! " he cried ; " the name that triflers give 

To their strong wishes without pains to live ; 

Genius ! the plea of all who feel desire 

Of fame, yet grudge the labours that acquire : 

But say 'tis true ; how poor, how late the gain, 

And certain ruin if the hope be vain ! " 

Then to the world appeal'd my lord, and cried, 

" Whatever happens, I am justified." 

Nay, it was trouble to his soul to find 

There was such hardness in the human mind : 

He wash'd his hands before the world, and swore 

That he " such minds would patronize no more." 

Now Charles his bread by daily labours sought, 
And this his solace, " So Corregio wrought." 



192 CRABBE. 

Alas, poor youth ! however great his name, 

And humble thine, thy fortune was the same : 

Charles drew and painted, and some praise obtain d 

For care and pains ; but little more was gain'd : 

Fame was his hope, and he contempt display' d 

For approbation, when 'twas coolly paid : 

His daily tasks he call'd a waste of mind, 

Vex'd at his fate, and angry with mankind ; 

" Thus have the blind to merit ever done, 

And Genius mourn' d for each neglected son." 

Charles murmur d thus, and, angry and alone, 

Half breathed the curse, and half suppress'd the groan ; 

Then still more sullen grew, and still more proud, 

Fame so refused he to himself allow' d ; 

Crowds in contempt he held, and all to him was crowd. 

If aught on earth, the youth his mother loved, 
And, at her death, to distant scenes removed. 

Years pass'd away, and where he lived, and how, 

Was then unknown, — indeed, we know not now ; 

But once, at twilight, walking up and down, 

In a poor alley of the mighty town, 

Where, in her narrow courts and garrets, hide 

The grieving sons of Genius, Want, and Pride, 

I met him musing : sadness I could trace, 

And conquer' d hope's meek anguish, in his face. 

See him I must : but I with ease address'd, 

And neither pity nor surprise express'd ; 

I strove both grief and pleasure to restrain, 

But yet I saw that I was giving pain. 

He said, with quick'ning pace, as loth to hold 

A longer converse, that " the day was cold, 

That he was well, that I had scarcely light 

To aid my steps ;" and bade me then good-night ! 

I saw him next where he had lately come, 
A silent pauper in a crowded room ; 



CRABBE. 193 

I heard his name, but he conceal' d his face ; 
To his sad mind his misery was disgrace : 
In vain I strove to combat his disdain 
Of my compassion. " Sir, I pray refrain ;" 4 
For I had left my friends, and stepp'd aside, 
Because I fear'd his unrelenting pride. 

He then was sitting on a workhouse-bed, 
And on the naked boards reclined his head ; 
Around were children with incessant cry, 
And near was one, like him, about to die ; 
A broken chair's deal bottom held the store 
That he required ; he soon would need no more ; 
A yellow teapot, standing at his side, 
From its half spout the cold black tea supplied. 

Hither, it seem'd, the fainting man was brought, 
Found without food, — it was no longer sought ; 
For his employers knew not whom they paid, 
Nor where to seek him whom they wish'd to aid : 
Here brought, some kind attendant he address' d, 
And sought some trifles which he yet possess'd ; 
Then named a lightless closet, in a room 
Hired at small rate, a garret's deepest gloom. 
They sought the region, and they brought him all 
That he his own, his proper wealth could call : 
A better coat, less pieced ; some linen, neat, 
Not whole ; and papers, many a valued sheet ; 
Designs and drawings ; these, at his desire, 
Were placed before him at the chamber fire, 
And while th' admiring people stood to gaze, 
He, one by one, committed to the blaze, 
Smiling in spleen ; but one he held awhile, 
And gave it to the flames, and could not smile. 

The sickening man — for such appear'd the fact — 
Just in his need, would not a debt contract ; 

N 



194 CRABBE. 

But left his poor apartment for the bed 

That earth might yield him, or some way side shed ; 

Here he was found, and to this place convey d, 

Where he might rest, and his last debt be paid : 

Fame was his wish ; but he so far from fame, 

That no one knew his kindred, or his name, 

Or by what means he lived, or from what place he came. 

Poor Charles ! unnoticed by thy titled friend, 

Thy days had calmly pass'd, in peace thine end : 

Led by this patron's vanity astray, 

Thy own misled thee in thy trackless way, 

Urging thee on by hopes absurd and vain, 

Where never peace or comfort smiled again ! 

Once more I saw him, when his spirits fail'd, 

And my desire to aid him then prevail' d ; 

He show'd a softer feeling in his eye, 

And watch'd my looks, and own'd the sympathy : 

'Twas now the calm of wearied pride ; so long 

As he had strength was his resentment strong ; 

But in such place, with strangers all around, 

And they such strangers, to have something found 

Allied to his own heart, an early friend, 

One, only one, who would on him attend, 

To give and take a look! at this his journey's end ; 

One link, however slender, of the chain 

That held him where he could not long remain ; 

The one sole interest ! No, he could not now 

Retain his anger ; Nature knew not how ; 

And so there came a softness to his mind, 

And he forgave the usage of mankind. 

His cold, long fingers now were press'd to mine, 

And his faint smile of kinder thoughts gave sign ; 

His lips moved often as he tried to lend 

His words their sound, and softly whisper'd " Friend ! ' 

Not without comfort in the thought express'd 

By that calm look, with which he sank to rest. 



195 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 

Is still living, and we trust that the period is distant when his biography 
must be written. His prose works are numerous and valuable, replete 
with sound information, and useful, because just, reflection. It is not 
easy to assign his rank as a poet, because he has tried so many experi- 
ments with his own powers, that no single work adequately represents 
his merits. Many of his experiments were failures ; and these, having 
been studiously exposed by malicious critics, have led the world to un- 
derrate the poet. But, as the zeal of party fades away, Dr. Southey's 
merits will be fully appreciated. He possesses a warm imagination, a 
powerful grasp of thought, a high tone of moral feeling, and a style at 
once noble and unaffected. It may, however, be regretted that, on some 
occasions, he did not submit his fancy to the control of his judgment. 



THE WIDOWED MOTHER. 

[From Thalaea the Destroyer.] 

I. 

How beautiful is night ! 
A dewy freshness fills the silent air, 
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, 
Breaks the serene of heaven : 
In full orb/d glory, yonder moon divine 
Rolls through the dark-blue depths. 
Beneath her steady ray, 
The desert-circle spreads, 
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 
How beautiful is night ! 

II. 

Who, at this untimely hour, 

Wanders o'er the desert sands ? 

No station is in view, 

Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste. 

n2 



196 SOUTHEY. 

The mother and her child, 

The widow' d mother and the fatherless boy, 

They at this untimely hour 

Wander o'er the desert sands. 

III. 



\ 



Alas ! the setting sun 
Saw Zeinab in her bliss, 
Hodeirah's wife beloved, 
The fruitful mother late, 
Whom, when the daughters of Arabia named, 
They wish'd their lot like hers : 
She wanders o'er the desert sands 
A wretched widow now, 
The fruitful mother of so fair a race, 
With only one preserved, 
She wanders o'er the wilderness. 

IV. 

No tear relieved the burthen of her heart ; 
Stunn'd with the heavy woe, she felt like one 
Half-waken'd from a midnight dream of blood. 
But sometimes, when the boy 
Would wet her hand with tears, 
And, looking up to her fix'd countenance, 
Sob out the name of Mother, then did she 
Utter a feeble groan. 
At length, collecting, Zeinab turn'd her eyes 
To heaven, exclaiming, " Praised be the Lord ! 
He gave, He takes away ! 
The Lord our God is good ! " 






SOUTHEY. 197 

THE VOYAGE. 

[From Madoc] 

Not with a heart unmoved I left thy shores, 
Dear native Isle ! oh, not without a pang, 
As thy fair uplands lessen' d on the view, 
Cast back the long involuntary look ! 
The morning cheer' d our outset ; gentle airs 
Curl'd the blue deep, and bright the summer sun 
Play'd o'er the summer ocean, when our barks 
Began their way. 

And they were gallant barks, 
As ever through the raging billows rode \ 
And many a tempest's buffeting they bore. 
Their sails all swelling with the eastern breeze, 
Their tighten'd cordage clattering to the mast, 
Steady they rode the main ; the gale aloft 
Sung in the shrouds, the sparkling waters hiss'd 
Before, and froth' d, and whiten'd far behind. 
Day after day with one auspicious wind, 
Right to the setting sun we held our course. 
My hope had kindled every heart ; they blest 
The unvarying breeze, whose unabating strength 
Still sped us onward ; and they said that Heaven 
Favour' d the bold emprise. 

How many a time, 
Mounting the mast-tower-top, with eager ken 
They gazed, and fancied in the distant sky 
Their promised shore, beneath the evening cloud, 
Or seen, low-lying, through the haze of morn ! 
I, too, with eyes as anxious watch'd the waves, 
Though patient, and prepared for long delay ; 
For not on wild adventure had I rush'd 
With giddy speed, in some delirious fit 
Of fancy ; but in many a tranquil hour 
Weigh' d well the attempt, till hope matured to faith. 



198 SOUTHEY. 

Day after day, day after day, the same, — 
A weary waste of waters ! still the breeze 
Hung heavy in our sails, and we held on 
One even course ; a second week was gone, 
And now another pass'd, and still the same, 
Waves beyond waves, the interminable sea ! 
What marvel if, at length, the mariners 
Grew sick with long expectance ? I beheld 
Dark looks of growing restlessness, I heard 
Distrust's low murmuring ; nor avail' d it long 
To see and not perceive. Shame had awhile 
Repress'd their fear, till, like a smother d fire, 
It burst, and spread with quick contagion round, 
* And strengthen'd as it spread. They spake in tones 
Which might not be mistaken ; they had done 
What men dared do, — ventured where never keel 
Had cut the deep before ; still all was sea, 
The same unbounded ocean ! to proceed . 
Were tempting heaven 1. 

******* 

In despairing mood, 
I sought my solitary cabin ; there, 
Confused with vague tumultuous feelings, lay, 
And to remembrance and reflection lost, 
Knew only I was wretched. 

Thus entranced 
Cadwallon found me ; shame, and grief, and pride, 
And baffled hope, and fruitless anger, swell'd 
Within me. All is over ! I exclaim'd ; 
Yet not in me, my friend, hath time produced 
These tardy doubts and shameful fickleness ; 
I have not fail'd, Cadwallon ! Nay, he cried, 
The coward fears which persecuted me, 



1 heaven. These circumstances are taken from the account of that voyage of 
Columbus in which he discovered the New World. 



SOUTHEY. 199 

Have shown what thou hast suffer d. We have yet 
One hope : I pray d them to proceed a day, — 
But one day more ; — this little have I gain'd, 
And here will wait the issue ; in yon bark 
I am not needed, — they are masters there. 

One only day ! The gale blew strong, the bark 

Sped through the waters ; but the silent hours, 

Who make no pause, went by ; and, centred still, 

We saw the dreary vacancy of heaven 

Close round our narrow view, when that brief term, 

The last poor respite of our hopes, expired. 

They shorten d sail, and call'd, with coward prayer, 

For homeward winds. Why, what poor slaves are we ! 

In bitterness I cried ; the sport of chance ; 

Left to the mercy of the elements, 

Or the more wayward will of such as these, 

Blind tools and victims of their destiny ! 

Yea ! Madoc ! he replied ; the elements 

Master indeed the feeble powers of man ! 

Not to the shores of Cambria 2 will thy ships 

Win back their shameful way ! or He, whose will 

Unchains the winds, hath bade them minister 

To aid us, when all human hope was gone, 

Or we shall soon eternally repose 

From life's long voyage. 

As he spake, I saw 
The clouds hang thick and heavy o'er the deep, 
And heavily, upon the long low swell, 
The vessel labour d on the labouring sea. 
The reef-points rattled on the shivering sail ; 
At fits the sudden gust howl'd ominous, 
Anon with unremitting fury raged ; 
High roll'd the mighty billows, and the blast 

2 Cambria, the ancient name of Wales. i 



200 SOUTHEY. 

Swept from their sheeted sides the showery foam. 
Vain now were all the seamen's homeward hopes, 
Vain all their skill ! — We drove before the storm. 

Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear 
Of tempests, and the dangers of the deep, 
And pause at times, and feel that we are safe ; 
Then listen to the perilous tale again, 
And, with an eager and suspended soul, 
Woo terror to delight us. But to hear 
The roaring of the raging elements, — 
To know all human skill, all human strength, 
Avail not ; — to look round, and only see 
The mountain wave incumbent, with its weight 
Of bursting waters, o'er the reeling bark : 
O God ! this is indeed a dreadful thing ! 
And he who hath endured the horror once 
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm 
Howl round his home, but he remembers it, 
i\.nd thinks upon the suffering mariner ! 
Onward we drove ; with unabating force 
The tempest raged ; night added to the storm 
New horrors, and the morn arose o'erspread 
With heavier clouds. The weary mariners 
CalVd on Saint Cyric's aid ; and I' too placed 
My hope on Heaven, relaxing not the while 
Our human efforts. 

******* 

Three dreadful nights and days we drove along ; 
The fourth, the welcome rain came rattling down : 
The wind had fall'n, and through the broken cloud 
Appeared the bright dilating blue of heaven. 
Embolden' d now, I call'd the mariners. 
Vain were it should we bend a homeward course, 
Driven by the storm so far : they saw our barks, 
For service of that long and perilous way 



SOUTHEY. 201 

Disabled, and our food belike to fail. 
Silent they heard, reluctant in assent ; 
Anon, they shouted joyfully. Ilook'd' 
And saw a bird slow sailing over-head, 
His long white pinions by the sunbeam edged, 
As though with burnish' d silver ; — never yet 
Heard I so sweet a music as his cry ! 

Yet three days more, and hope more eager now, 
Sure of the signs of land, — weed-shoals, and birds 
Who flock' d the main, and gentle airs which breathed, 
Or seem'd to breathe, fresh fragrance from the shore. 
On the last evening, a long shadowy line 
Skirted the sea ; — how fast the night closed in ! 
I stood upon the deck and watch' d till dawn. 
But who can tell what feelings fill'd my heart, 
When, like a cloud, the distant land arose, 
Gray from the ocean, — when we left the ship, 
And cleft, with rapid oars, the shallow wave, 
And stood triumphant on another world ! 



MOUNT MERU 3. 

[From The Curse of Kehama.J 

Swift through the sky the vessel of the Suras 4 

Sails up the fields of ether like an angel. 
Rich is the freight, O vessel, that thou bearest ! 
Beauty and Virtue, 
Fatherly cares and filial veneration, 
Hearts which are proved and strengthen^ by affliction, 
Manly resentment, fortitude and action, 
Womanly goodness ; 

3 Meru. In the Hindoo mythology, a species of paradise is supposed to exist 

in the northern hemisphere, which they call Mount Meru. 

4 suras, angelic beings. 



202 SOUTHEY. 

All with which Nature halloweth her daughters, 
Tenderness, truth, and purity, and meekness, 
Piety, patience, faith, and resignation, 
Love and devotement. 
Ship of the Gods ! how richly art thou laden ! 
Proud of the charge, thou voyagest rejoicing ; 
Clouds float around to honour thee, and evening 
Lingers in heaven. 

A stream 5 descends on Meru mountain ; 
None hath seen its secret fountain ; 
It had its birth, so sages say, 
Upon the memorable day 
When Parvati 6 presumed to lay, 
In wanton play, 
Her hands, too venturous goddess, in her mirth, 
On Seeva's7 eyes, the light and life of earth. 
Thereat the heart of the universe stood still ; 
The elements ceased their influences ; the hours 
Stopt on the eternal round ; motion and breath, 
Time, change, and life and death, 
In sudden trance opprest, forgot their powers. 
A moment, and the dread eclipse was ended ; 
But, at the thought of nature thus suspended, 

The sweat on Seevas forehead stood, 
Arid Ganges thence upon the world descended, 
The holy river, the redeeming flood. 
None hath seen its secret fountain ; 
But on the top of Meru mountain, 
Which rises o'er the hills of earth, 
In light and clouds, it hath its mortal birth. 
Earth seems that pinnacle to rear 
Sublime above this worldly sphere, 



5 a stream ; the Ganges, which the Hindoos regard as a holy river, and relate 

extraordinary fables respecting its origin. 

6 Parvati, a Hindoo goddess. 7 Seeva, a Hindoo god. 






SOUTHEY. 203 

Its cradle, and its altar, and its throne, 

And there the new-born river lies, 
Outspread beneath its native skies, 
As if it there would love to dwell 
Alone and unapproachable. 
Soon flowing forward, and resign d 
To the will of the creating mind, 
It springs at once, with sudden leap, 
Down from the immeasurable steep. 
From rock to rock, with shivering force rebounding, 
The mighty cataract rushes ; heaven around, 
Like thunder, with the incessant roar resounding, 

And Meru's summit shaking with the sound. 
Wide spreads the snowy foam, the sparkling spray 

Dances aloft ; and ever there, at morning, 

The earliest sun-beams haste to wing their way, 

With rainbow-wreaths the holy flood adorning ; 

And duly the adoring moon at night 

Sheds her white glory there, 

And in the watery air 

Suspends her halo-crowns of silver light. 

A mountain-valley, in its blessed breast, 
Receives the stream which there delights to lie, r % 

Untroubled and at rest, 
Beneath the untainted sky. 
There, in a. lovely lake, it seems to sleep, 
And thence through many a channel, dark and deep, 
Their secret way the holy waters wind, 

Till, rising underneath the root 
Of the tree of life on Hemakoot 8 , 
Majestic forth they flow to purify mankind. 

8 Hemahoot, a fabulous mountain. 



204 

THE DOG. 

[From Roderick^ the Last of the Goths.] 

While thus Florinda spake, the dog, who lay 

Before Rusilla's 10 feet, eyeing him long 

And wistfully, had recognised at length, 

Changed as he was, and in those sordid weeds, 

His royal master. And he rose and lick'd 

His wither' d hand, and earnestly look'd up 

With eyes whose human meaning did not need 

The aid of speech, and moan'd as if at once 

To court and chide the long-withheld caress. 

A feeling uncommix'd with sense of guilt 

Or shame, yet painfullest, thrill' d through the king ; 

But he, to self-control now long inured, 

Represt his rising heart, nor other tears, 

Full as his struggling bosom was, let fall 

Than seem'd to follow on Florinda' s words. 

Looking toward her then, yet so that still 

He shunn'd the meeting of her eye, he said, 

Virtuous and pious as thou art, and ripe 

For heaven, O lady ! I will think the man, 

Hath not, by his good angel, been cast off 

For whom thy supplications rise. The Power 

Whose justice doth, in its unerring course, 

Visit the children for the sire's offence, 

Shall He not, in his boundless mercy, hear 

The daughter's prayer, and for her sake restore 

The guilty parent ? My soul shall with thine 

In earnest and continual duty join ; — 

How deeply, how devoutly, He will know 

9 Roderick, the last of the Gothic monarchs of Spain, having injured Florinda, 
the daughter of Count Julian, that powerful nobleman invited the Moors 
to invade his native country. The Goths were completely defeated, and 
Roderick most probably slain. In the poem, Roderick is supposed to have 
survived the engagement, and obtained pardon for his sins by a long course 
of penitence. In the extract, he is engaged in an attempt to restore the 
independence of Spain, though resolved never again to wear its crown. 
10 Rusilla, Roderick's mother. 






SOUTHEY. 205 

To whom the cry is raised ! Thus having said, 

Deliberately, in self-possession still, 

Himself from that most painful interview 

Dispeeding, he withdrew. The watchful dog 

Follow' d his footsteps close. But he retired 

Into the thickest grove ; there yielding way 

To his o'erburthen'd nature, from all eyes 

Apart, he cast himself upon the ground, 

And threw his arms around the dog, and cried, 

While tears stream 1 d down, Thou, Theron, then hast known 

Thy poor lost master, Theron, none but thou ! 



THE VALE OF COVADONGA. 

{From Roderick the last of the Goths.] 

There was a stirring in the air, the sun 
Prevailed, and gradually the brightening mist 
Began to rise and melt. A jutting crag 
Upon the right projected o'er the stream, 
Not farther from the cave than a strong hand 
Expert, with deadly aim, might cast the spear, 
Or a strong voice, pitch' d to full compass, make 
Its clear articulation heard distinct. 
A venturous dalesman, once ascending there 
To rob the eagle's nest, had fallen, and hung 
Among the heather, wondrously preserved : 
Therefore had he with pious gratitude 
Placed on that overhanging brow a Cross, 
Tall as the mast of some light fisher's skiff, 
And from the vale conspicuous. As the Moors 
Advanced, the Chieftain in the van was seen, 
Known by his arms, and from the crag a voice 
Pronounced his name, — Alcahman, hoa ! look up 
Alcahman ! As the floating mist drew up, 



206 SOUTHEY. 

It had divided there, and open'd round 

The Cross ; part clinging to the rock beneath, 

Hovering and waving part in fleecy folds, 

A canopy of silver light condensed 

To shape and substance. In the midst there stood 

A female form, one hand upon the Cross, 

The other raised in menacing act : below 

Loose flow'd her raiment, but her breast was arm'd, 

And helmeted her head. The Moor turned pale, 

For on the walls of Auria he had seen 

That well-known figure, and had well believed 

She rested with the dead. What, hoa, she cried, 

Alcahman ! In the name of all who fell 

At Auria in the massacre, this hour 

I summon thee before the throne of God, 

To answer for the innocent blood ! This hour, 

Moor, Miscreant, Murderer, Child of Hell, this hour 

I summon thee to judgment ! — In the name 

Of God ! for Spain and Vengeance ! 

Thus she closed 
Her speech; for taking from the Primate's hand 
That oaken cross which at the sacring rites 
Had served for crosier, at the cavern's mouth 
Pelayo lifted it and gave the word. 
From voice to voice on either side it past 
With rapid repetition. — In the name 
Of God ! for Spain and Vengeance ! and forthwith 
On either side along the whole defile 
The Asturians, shouting in the name of God, 
Set the whole ruin loose ! huge trunks and stones, 
And loosened crags, down down they roll'd with rush 
And bound, and thundering force. Such was the fall, 
As when some city by the labouring earth 
Heaved from its strong foundations is cast down, 
And all its dwellings, towers, and palaces 
In one wide desolation prostrated. 



SOUTHEY. 207 

From end to end of that long strait, the crash 

Was heard continuous, and commixt with sounds 

More dreadful, shrieks of horror and despair, 

And death, — the wild and agonizing cry 

Of that whole host in one destruction whelm'd. 

Vain was all valour there, all martial skill ; 

The valiant arm is helpless now ; the feet 

Swift in the race avail not now to save ; 

They perish, all their thousands perish there 11 , — 

Horsemen and infantry, they perish all, — 

The outward armour and the bones within 

Broken and bruised and crushed. Echo prolong' d 

The long uproar : a silence then ensued, 

Through which the sound of Deva's stream was heard, 

A lonely voice of waters, wild and sweet ; 

The lingering groan, the faintly utter'd prayer, 

The louder curses of despairing death, 

Ascended not so high. Down from the cave 

Pelayo hastes, the Asturians hasten down, 

Fierce and immitigable down they speed 

On all sides, and along the vale of blood 

The avenging sword did mercy's work that hour. 



11 The battle of Covadonga is one of the great miracles of Spanish history. It 
was asserted for many centuries without contradiction, and is still believed 
by the people, that when the Moore attacked Pelayo in the cave, their wea- 
pons were turned back upon themselves ; that the Virgin Mary appeared in 
the clouds ; and'that part of a mountain fell upon the Infidels, and crushed 
those who were flying from the destruction. 



208 



COLERIDGE. 

Few writers have been the subject of such unmeasured praise and un- 
merited censure, as Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It must, indeed, be 
confessed that he has not hitherto produced a work worthy of his fame 
and his wondrous powers of mind ; but all that he has published displays 
a gigantic power of imagination, and a wonderful command of language. 
To him truly belong " the thoughts that breathe and words that burn." 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF 
CHAMOUNYL 

Hast thou a charm to stay the Morning-star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc 2 ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; hut thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth the silent Sea of Pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 

1 worshipp'd the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy : 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused 
Into the mighty vision passing — then, 
As in her natural form, swell 1 d vast to heaven ! 

1 Chamouny, a beautiful valley in Switzerland. 

2 Blanc, Mont Blanc, the highest of the European mountains.' 



COLERIDGE. 209 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn ! 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! 
O struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink : 
Companion of the Morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
For ever shatter'd, and the same for ever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, 
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen, full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! . 
God ! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 

o 



210 COLERIDGE. 

And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ; 
Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche 3, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou too, again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That, as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
To rise before me, — Rise, O ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit, throned among the hills, 
Thou dread Ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, w^th her thousand voices, praises God, 



TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE. 

Mark this holy chapel well ! 
The birth-place, this, of William Tell 4 , 
Here, where stands God's altar dread, 
•Stood his parents' marriage-bed. 

3 avalanche a huge mass of snow tumbling down from a mountain. 

4 Tell, a celebrated Swiss patriot, who roused his countrymen to throw cff the 

Austrian yoke. 



COLERIDGE. 211 

Here first, an infant to her breast, 
Him his loving mother prest ; 
And kiss'd the babe, and bless' d the day, 
And pray'd, as mothers use to pray : 

" Vouchsafe him health, O God, and give 
The child thy servant still to live ! " 
But God had destined to do more 
Through him, than through an armed power. 

God gave him reverence of laws, 

Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause — 

A spirit to his rocks akin, — 

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein ! 

To Nature and to Holy Writ 
Alone did God the boy commit : 
Where flash' d and roar'd the torrent, oft 
His soul found wings, and soar'd aloft ! 

The straining oar and chamois' chace 
Had form' d his limbs to strength and grace : 
On wave and wind the boy would toss, 
Was great, nor knew how great he was ! 

He knew not that his chosen hand, 
Made strong by God, his native land 
Would rescue from the shameful yoke 
Of Slavery, the which he broke ! 



NIGHT. 

{From Christabel.] 

The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? 
There is not wind enough in the air 
To move away the ringlet curl 
From the lovely lady's cheek ; 
There is not wind enough to twirl 



O 2 



212 COLERIDGE. 

The one red leaf, the last of its clan. 
That dances as often as dance it can, 
Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 



THE DISSOLUTION OF FRIENDSHIP. 

Alas ! they had heen friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 

And life is thorny ; and youth is vain : 
And to be wroth with one we love, 

Doth work like madness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
Each spake words of high disdain 

And insult to his heart's best brother : 
They parted — ne'er to meet again I 

But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining ; 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder : 

A dreary sea now flows between. 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 

Shall wholly do away, I ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been. 



213 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 

Like his friend Coleridge, has been the subject of extravagant praise 
and censure. The former may be justified by the exquisite fidelity with 
which he depicts natural scenery, the simple tenderness of his appeals 
to the heart, the noble philanthropy he inculcates, and the truly devout 
morality he teaches. The censure is wholly without excuse. In his 
dislike of artificial beauty, he may sometimes have written in a style too 
plain and simple ; but cold must be the heart that could blame a bard, 
whose every line shows him to possess all the affections of an amiable 
man, and all the benevolence of a sincere Christian. 



LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

On the Eve of a New Year. 

" Smile of the moon ! for so I name 
That silent greeting from above ; 

A gentle flash of light that came 

From her whom drooping captives love ! 

Or art thou of still higher birth ? 

Thou that didst part the clouds of earth, 
My torpor to reprove ! 

" Bright boon of pitying heaven — alas ! 

I may not trust thy placid cheer ! 
Pondering that time to-night will pass 

The threshold of another year ; 
For years to me are sad and dull ; 
My very moments are too full 

Of hopelessness and fear. 

" And yet, the soul-awakening gleam, 
That struck perchance the farthest cone 

Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem 
To visit me, and me alone ; 

Me, unapproach'd by any friend, 

Save those who to my sorrows lend 
Tears due unto their own. 



214 WORDSWORTH. 

" To-night, the church-tower bells will ring 
Through these wide realms a festive peal ; 

To the new year a welcoming ; 
A tuneful offering for the weal 

Of happy millions lufl'd in sleep ; 

While I am forced to watch and weep, 
By wounds that may not heal. 

" Born all too high, by wedlock raised 
Still higher — to be cast thus low ! 

Would that mine eyes had never gazed 
On aught of more ambitious show 

Than the sweet flowerets of the fields ! 

— It is my royal state that yields 
This bitterness of woe. 

" Yet how ? — for I, if there be truth 
In the world's voice, was passing fair ; 

And beauty, for confiding youth, 
Those shocks of passion can prepare 

That kill the bloom before its time, 

And blanch, without the owner s crime, 
The most resplendent hair. 

" Unblest distinction ! shower' d on me, 
To bind a lingering life in chains : — 

All that could quit my grasp, or flee, 
Is gone ; — but not the subtle stains 

Fix'd in the spirit ; for even here 

Can I be proud that jealous fear 
Of what I was remains. 

" A woman rules my prison's key ; 

A sister queen, against the bent 
Of law and holiest sympathy, 

Detains me — doubtful of th' event ; 
Great God, who feel'st for my distress, 
My thoughts are all that I possess, 

O, keep them innocent ! 



WORDSWORTH. 215 

" Farewell, desire of human aid, 

Which abject mortals vainly court, 
By friends deceived, by foes betray'd, 

Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport, 
Nought but the world-redeeming Cross 
Is able to supply my loss, 

My burthen to support. 

" Hark ! the death-note of the year 

Sounded by the castle-clock ! " 
From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear 

Stole forth, unsettled by the shock ; 
But oft the woods renew'd their green, 
Ere the tired head of Scotland's queen 

Reposed upon the block ! 



OBLIGATIONS OF CIVIL TO RELIGIOUS LIBERTY. 

Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget 

The sons who for thy civil rights have bled ! 

How, like a Roman, Sidney 1 bow'd his head, 

And Russell's 2 milder blood the scaffold wet ; 

But these had fallen for profitless regret, 

Had not thy holy Church her champions bred ; 

And claims from other worlds inspirited 

The Star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet 

(Grave this within thy heart !) if spiritual things 

Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear, 

Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support, 

However hardly won or justly dear; 

What came from Heaven to Heaven by nature clings, 

And if dissever'd thence, its course is short. 

1 Sidney, put to death on illegal evidence, in the reign of Charles II. 

2 Russell, executed about the same time as Sidney. 



216 WORDSWORTH. 

FIDELITY. 

A barking sound the shepherd hears, 

A cry as of a dog or fox ; 
He halts, *and searches with his eyes 

Among the scatter'd rocks : 
And now at distance can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
And instantly a dog is seen, 
Glancing through that covert green. 

The dog is not of mountain breed ; 

Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; 
With something, as the shepherd thinks, 

Unusual in its cry. 
Nor is there any one in sight 
All round, in hollow, or on height ; 
Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes his ear ; 
What is the creature doing here ? 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps till June December's snow ; 
A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below ! 
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn \ 
Remote from public road or dwelling, 
Pathway, or cultivated land, 
From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth the leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 

The crag repeats the raven's croak, 
In symphony austere ; 

Thither the rainbow comes — the cloud — 

And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 

. 1 Helvellyn, a mountain near the borders of Scotland. 



WORDSWORTH. .217 

And sunbeams, and the sounding blast, 
That if it could would hurry past ; 
But that enormous barrier binds it fast. 

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile 
The shepherd stood ; then makes his way 

Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, 
As quickly as he may ; 

Nor far had gone before he found 

A human skeleton on the ground ; 

The appall' d discoverer, with a sigh, 

Looks round to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 
The man had fall'n, that place of fear ! 

At length upon the shepherd's mind 
It breaks, and all is clear : 

He instantly recall'd the name, 

And who he was, and whence he came ; 

Remember'd too the very day, 

On which the traveller pass'd this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 

This lamentable tale I tell ! 
A lasting monument of words 

This wonder merits well. 
The dog, which still was hovering nigh, 
Repeating the same timid cry, 
This dog had been, through three months' space, 
A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes, proof was plain, that since the day, 

When this ill-fated traveller died, 
The dog had watch'd about the spot, 

Or by his master's side : 
How nourish' d here through such long time, 
He knows, who gave that love sublime ; 
And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate. 



218 WORDSWORTH. 

RUTH. 

When Ruth was left half desolate, 
Her father took another mate ; 

And Ruth, not seven years old, 
A slighted child, at her own will 
Went wandering over dale and hill, 

In thoughtless freedom bold. 

And she had made a pipe of straw, 
And from that oaten pipe could draw 

All sounds of winds and floods ; 
Had built a bower upon the green, 
As if she from her birth had been 

An infant of the woods. 

Beneath her father's roof, alone 

She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own; 

Herself her own delight; 
Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay ; 
And passing thus the live-long day, 

She grew to woman's height. 

There came a youth from Georgia's shore; 
A military casque he wore, 

With splendid feathers drest ; 
He brought them from the Cherokees ; 
The feathers nodded in the breeze, 

And made a gallant crest. 

From Indian blood you deem him sprung ; 
Ah, no ! he spake the English tongue, 

And bore a soldier's name ; 
And when America was free 
From battle and from jeopardy, 

He 'cross the ocean came. 

With hues of genius on his cheek 
In finest tones the youth could speak. 



WORDSWORTH. 219 

— While he was yet a boy, 
The moon, the glory of the sun, 
And streams that murmur as they run, 

Had been his dearest joy. 

He was a lovely youth ! I guess 
The panther in the wilderness 

Was not so fair as he ; 
And, when he chose to sport and play, 
No dolphin ever was so gay 

Upon the tropic sea. 

Among the Indians he had fought ; 
And with him many tales he brought 

Of pleasure and of fear ; 
Such tales as told to any maid, 
By such a youth, in the green shade, 

Were perilous to hear. 

He told of girls — a happy rout ! 

Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 

Their pleasant Indian town, 
To gather strawberries all day long ; 
Returning with a choral song 

When daylight is gone down. 

He spake of plants divine and strange, , 
That every hour their blossoms change, 

Ten thousand lovely hues ! 
With budding, fading, faded flowers, 
They stand the wonder of the bowers, 

From morn to evening dews. 

He told of the magnolia, spread 
High as a cloud, high over head ! 

The cypress and her spire ; 
— Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 

To set the hills on fire. 



220 WORDSWORTH. 

The youth of green savannahs spake, 
And many an endless, endless lake, 

With all its fairy crowds 
Of islands, that together lie 
As quietly as spots of sky 

Among the evening clouds. 

And then he said, " How sweet it were 
A fisher or a hunter there, 

A gardener in the shade, 
Still wandering with an easy mind 
To build a household fire, and find 

A home in every glade ! 

"What days and what sweet years ! Ah me! 
Our life were life indeed, with thee 

So pass'd in quiet bliss, 
And all the while," said he, " to know 
That we were in a world of woe, 

On such an earth as this !" 

And then he sometimes interwove 
Dear thoughts about a father's love : 

" For there," said he, " are spun 
Around the heart such tender ties, 
That our own children to our eyes 

Are dearer than the sun. 

" Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 
My helpmate in the woods to be, 

Our shed at night to rear ; 
Or run my own adopted bride, 
A sylvan huntress at my side, 

And drive the flying deer ! 

" Beloved Ruth!" — No more he said. 
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
A solitary tear : 



WORDSWORTH. 221 

She thought again — and did agree 
With him to sail across the sea, 
And drive the flying deer. 

" And now, as fitting is and right. 
We in the church our faith will plight, 

A husband and a wife." 
Even so they did ; and I may say, 
That to sweet Ruth that happy day 

Was more than human life. 

Through dream and vision did she sink, 
Delighted all the while to think 

That on those lonesome floods, 
And green savannahs, she should share 
His board with lawful joy, and bear 

His name in the wild woods. 

But as you have before been told, 
This stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 

And with his dancing crest 
So beautiful, through savage lands 
Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands 

Of Indians in the west. 

The wind, the tempest roaring high, 
The tumult of a tropic sky, 

Might well be dangerous food 
For him, a youth to whom was given 
So much of earth — so much of heaven, 

And such impetuous blood. 

Whatever in those climes he found 
Irregular in sight or sound, 

Did to his mind impart 
A kindred impulse, seem'd allied 
To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 



222 WORDSWORTH. 

Nor less to feed voluptuous thought , 
The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 

Fair trees and lovely flowers ; 
The breezes their own languor lent : 
The stars had feelings, which they sent 

Into those gorgeous bowers. 

Yet in his worst pursuits, I ween 
That sometimes there did intervene 

Pure hopes of high intent : 
For passions link'd to forms so fair 
And stately, needs must have their share 

Of noble sentiment. 

But ill he lived, much evil saw, 
With men, to whom no better law, 

Nor better life was known ; 
Deliberately, and undeceived, 
Those wild mens vices he received, 

And gave them back his own. 

His genius and his moral frame 
Were thus impaired, and he became 

The slave of low desires : 
A man who, without self-control, 
Would seek what the degraded soul 

Unworthily admires. 

And yet he with no feign' d delight 
Had woo'd the maiden day and night, 

Had loved her night and morn: 
What could *he less than love a maid, 
Whose heart with so much nature play'd ? 

So kind and so forlorn ! 

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
" O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; 
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 



WORDSWORTH. 222 

Encompass d me on every side, 
When first, in confidence and pride, 
I cross'd the Atlantic main. 

" It was a fresh and glorious world, 
A banner bright that was unfurl'd 

Before me suddenly : 
I look'd upon those hills and plains, 
And seem'd as if let loose from chains 

To live at liberty. 

" But wherefore speak of this ? For now, 
Sweet Ruth ! with thee, I know not how 

I feel my spirit burn — 
Even as the east when day comes forth ; 
And, to the west, and south, and north, 

The morning doth return." 

Full soon that purer mind was gone ; 
No hope, no wish remain 1 d, not one ; 

They stirrd him now no more ; 
New objects did new pleasure give ; 
And once again he wish'd to live 

As lawless as before. 

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
They for the voyage were prepared, 

And went to the sea-shore ; 
But, when they thither came, the youth 
Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth 

Could never find him more. 

God help thee, Ruth! — Such pains she had, 
That she in half a year was mad, 

And in a prison housed ; 
And there she sang tumultuous songs, 
By recollection of her wrongs, 

To fearful passion roused. 



224 WORDSWORTH. 

Yet, sometimes, milder hours she knew, 
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 

Nor pastimes of the May, 
— They all were with her in her cell ; 
And a wild brook with cheerful knell 

Did o'er the pebbles play. 

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 
There came a respite to her pain ; 

She from her prison fled ; 
But of the vagrant none took thought ; 
And where it liked her best she sought 

Her shelter and her bread. 

Among the fields she breathed again : 
The master- current of her brain 

Ran permanent and free ; 
And, coming to the banks of Tone, 
There did she rest, and dwell alone 

Under the greenwood tree. 

The engines of her pain, the tools 
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 

And airs that gently stir 
The vernal leaves, she loved them still, 
Nor ever taxed them with the ill 

Which had been done to her. 

A barn her winter bed supplies ; 
But, till the warmth of summer skies 

And summer days is gone, 
(And all do in this tale agree,) 
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 

And other home hath none. 

An innocent life, yet far astray ! 
And Ruth will, long before her day, 
Be broken down and old : 



WORDSWORTH. 225 

Sore aches she needs must have! but less 
Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 
From damp, and rain, and cold. 

If she is press'd by want of food, 
She from her dwelling in the wood 

Repairs to a road-side ; 
And there she begs at one steep place, 
Where up and down, with easy pace, 

The horsemen-travellers ride. 

That oaten pipe of hers is mute, 
Or thrown away : but with a flute 

Her loneliness she cheers : 
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 
At evening in his homeward walk, 
The Quantock woodman hears. 

I, too, have pass'd her on the hills, 
Setting her little water-mills 

By spouts and fountains wild — 
Such small machinery as she turn'd 
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn d, 

A young and happy child ! 

Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 
Ill-fated Ruth ! in hallow 1 d mould 

Thy corpse shall buried be ; 
For thee a funeral-bell shall ring, 
And all the congregation sing 

A Christian psalm for thee. 



TO THE DAISY. 



Sweet Flower! belike one day to have 
A place upon thy Poet's grave, 
I welcome thee once more : 

p 



226 WORDSWORTH. 

But he, who was on land, at sea, 
My brother, too, in loving thee, 
Although he loved more silently, 
Sleeps by his native shore. 

Ah ! hopeful, hopeful was the day, 
When to that ship he bent his way, 

To govern and to guide : 
His wish was gaind : a little time 
Would bring him back in manhood's prime, 
And free for life these hills to climb, 

With all his wants supplied. 

And full of hope day follow'd day, 
While that stout ship at anchor lay, 

Beside the shores of Wight ; 
The May had then made all things green ; 
And, floating there in pomp serene, 
That ship was goodly to be seen, 

His pride and his delight. 

Yet then, when call'd ashore, he sought, 
The tender peace of rural thought : 

In more than happy mood 
To your abodes, bright daisy-flowers ! 
He then would steal at leisure hours, 
And loved you glittering in your bowers, 

A starry multitude. 

But hark the word ! — the ship is gone ; — 
From her long course returns :— anon 

Sets sail : — in season due, 
Once more on English earth they stand : 
But, when a third time from the land 
They parted, sorrow was at hand 

For him and for his crew. 

Ill-fated vessel ! — ghastly shock ! 
— At length deliver d from the rock, 
The deep she hath regain d ; 



WORDSWORTH. 227 

And through the stormy night they steer, 
Labouring for life, in hope and fear, 
Towards a safer shore — how near, 
Yet not to he attain'd ! 

" Silence ! " the brave commander cried ; 
To that calm word a shriek replied, — 

It was the last death-shriek. 
— A few appear by morning light, 
Preserved upon the tall mast's height : 
Oft in my soul I see that sight ; 
But one dear remnant of the night — 

For him in vain I seek. 

Six weeks beneath the moving sea 
He lay in slumber quietly ; 

Unforced by wind or wave 
To quit the ship for which he died, 
(All claims of duty satisfied ;) 
And there they found him at her side ; 

And bore him to the grave. 

Vain service ! Yet not vainly done 
For this, if other end were none, 

That he, who had been cast 
Upon a way of life unmeet 
For such a gentle soul and sweet, 
Should find an undisturb'd retreat, 

Near what he loved, at last ; 

That neighbourhood of grove and field 
To him a resting-place should yield. 

A meek man and a brave ! 
The birds shall sing, and ocean make 
A mournful murmur for his sake ; 
And thou, sweet flower, shalt sleep and wake 

Upon his senseless grave. 



p 2 



228 WORDSWORTH. 

ELEGIAC STANZAS.-1824. 

O for a dirge ! But why complain ? 
Ask rather a triumphal strain 

When Fermor's race is run ; 
A garland of immortal boughs 
To bind around the Christian's brows, 

Whose glorious work is done. 

We pay a high and holy debt ; 
No tears of passionate regret 

Shall stain this votive lay ; 
Ill-worthy, Beaumont ! were the grief 
That flings itself on wild relief 

When saints have pass'd away. 

Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel, 
For ever covetous to feel, 

And impotent to bear : 
Such once was hers — to think and think 
On sever'd love, and only sink 

From anguish to despair ! 

But nature to its inmost part 

Had Faith refined, and to her heart 

A peaceful cradle given ; 
Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest 
Within a breeze-fann'd rose's breast, 

Till it exhales to heaven. 

Was ever spirit, that could bend 
So graciously ? — that could descend 

Another's need to suit, 
So promptly from her lofty throne ! — 
In works of love, in these alone, 

How restless, how minute ! 

Pale was her hue ; yet mortal cheek 
Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak 
When aught had suffer'd wrong, — 



WORDSWORTH. 229 

When aught that breathes had felt a wound : 
Such look the oppressor might confound, 
However proud and strong. 

But hush'd be every thought that springs 
From out the bitterness of things ; 

Her quiet is secure ; 
No thorns can pierce her tender feet, 
Whose life was, like the violet, sweet, 

As climbing jasmine pure; — 

As snow-drop on an infant's grave, 
Or lily heaving with the wave 

That feeds it and defends ; 
As vesper, ere the star hath kiss'd 
The mountain-top, or breathed the mist 

That from the vale ascends. 

Thou takest not away, O Death ! 
Thou strikest — and absence perisheth, 

Indifference is no more ; 
The future brightens on our sight ; 
For on the past hath fallen a light 

That tempts us to adore. 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 



This truly amiable poet, and excellent man, is a banker in London ; 
he has written but little, that little, however, like Gray's, is truly 
valuable, and will ever possess charms for readers of taste and feeling. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Childhood. 
Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, 
The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green ! 
Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo they live ! 
Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. 



230 ROGERS. 

Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, 

To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; 

Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, 

When nature fades, and life forgets to charm ; 

Thee would the Muse invoke ! — to thee belong , 

The sages precept, and the poet's song. 

What soften d views thy magic glass reveals, 

When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals ! 

As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, 

Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; 

Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd, 

Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind. 

The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, 

Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 

Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, 

Quickening my truant feet across the lawn : 

Unheard the shout that rent the noon-tide air, 

When the slow dialfgave a pause to care. 

Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, 

Some little friendship, form'd and cherish'd here ; 

And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems 

With golden visions and romantic dreams ! 

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 
The gipsy's fagot — there we stood and gazed ; 
Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, 
Her tatter'd mantle and her hood of straw ; 
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er ; 
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, 
Imps in the barn with mousing owlets bred, 
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; 
Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest shade, # 
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd ■ 
And heroes fled the sibyl's mutter' d call, 
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. 
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, 
And traced the line of life with searching view, 



ROGERS. 231 

How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears, 
To learn the colour of my future years ! 

Ah, then, what honest triumph flush' d my breast ; 
This truth once known — to bless is to be blest ! 
We led the bending beggar on his way, 
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray,) 
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, 
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt : 
As in his scrip we dropt our little store, 
And sigh'd to think that little was no more, 
Ke breathed his prayer, " Long may such goodness live !" 
Twas all he gave, — 'twas all he had to give. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



The lark has sung his carol in the sky, 

The bees have humm'd their noon-tide lullaby ; 

Still in the vale the village-bells ring round, 

Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound ; 

For now the caudle-cup is circling there, 

Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, 

And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire 

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. 

A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail 
The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; 
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, 
Eager to run the race his fathers ran. 
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; 
The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine ; 
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, 
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills s beguiled, 
" 'Twas on her knees he sat so oft and smiled." 

And soon again shall music swell the breeze ; 
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees, 



232 ROGERS. 

Vestures of nuptial white ; and hymns be sung, 
And violets scatter d round ; and old and young, 
In every cottage-porch with garlands green, 
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene, 
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side, 
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. 

And once, alas ! nor in a distant hour, 
Another voice shall come from yonder tower ; 
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, 
And weeping heard where only joy has been ; 
When, by his children borne, and from his door, 
Slowly departing to return no more, 
He rests in holy earth with them that went before. 

And such is human life ; so gliding on, 
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone ! 
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, 
As fall, methinks, of wild and wondrous change, 
As any that the wandering tribes require, 
Stretch' d in the desert round their evening-fire ; 
As any sung of old, in hall or bower, 
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour I 



TO THE BUTTERFLY. 

Child of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight, 
Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light ; 
And where the flowers of Paradise unfold, 
Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold ; 
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, 
Expand and shut with silent ecstasy ! 
Yet thou wert once a worm, a thing that crept 
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. 
And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay 
To burst, a seraph in the blaze of day ! 



ROGERS. 233 

ITALY. 

O Italy, how beautiful thou art ! 

Yet I could weep — for thou art lying, alas ! 

Low in the dust ; and they who come admire thee 

As we admire the beautiful in death. 

Thine was a dangerous gift — the gift of beauty. 

Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast, 

Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee ! 

— But why despair ? Twice hast thou lived already ; 

Twice shone among the nations of the world, 

As the sun shines among the lesser lights 

Of heaven, and shalt again. The hour shall come, 

When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit, 

Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, 

Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again 

If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess 

Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame 

Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously, 

And, dying, left a splendour like the day, 

That like the day diffused itself, and still 

Blesses the earth — the light of genius, virtue, 

Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death, 

God-like example. Echoes that have slept 

Since Athens, Lacedaemon, were themselves, 

Since men invoked " by those in Marathon !" 

Awake along the ^gean ; and the dead, 

They of that sacred shore, have heard the call, 

And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen, 

Moving, as once they were, instead of rage, 

Breathing deliberate valour. 



234 ROGERS. 

THE SAILOR. 

The sailor sighs as sinks his native shore 
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade ; 

He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more, 
And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid 

Ah ! now each dear domestic scene he knew, 
Recall' d and cherish' d in a foreign clime, 

Charms with the magic of a moonlight view ; 
Its colours mellow' d, not impair'd, by time. 

True as the needle homeward points his heart, 
Through all the horrors of the stormy main ; 

This, the last wish that would with life depart, 
To see the smile of her he loves again. 

When morn first faintly draws her silver line, 
Or eve's gray cloud descends to drink the wave ; 

When sea and sky in midnight darkness join, 
Still, still he views the parting look she gave. 

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, 
Attends his little bark from pole to pole ; 

And when the beating billows round him roar, 
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. 

Carved is her name in many a spicy grove, 
In many a plantain-forest, waving wide ; 

Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, 
And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide. 

But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail ! 

Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend ! 
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale ! 

In each he hears the welcome of a friend. 

— 'Tis she, 'tis she herself ! she waves her hand ! 

Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furl'd ; 
Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land, 

And clasps^the maid he singled from the world. 



ROGERS. 235 

ON A TEAR. 

Oh ! that the chemist's magic art 
Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! 

Long should it glitter near my heart, 
A secret source of pensive pleasure. 

The little brilliant, ere it fell, 

Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; 
Then, trembling, left its coral cell — 

The spring of sensibility ! 

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 

In thee the rays of virtue shine ; 
More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 

Than any gem that gilds the mine. 

Benign restorer of the soul ! 

Who ever fly'st to bring relief, 
When first we feel the rude control 

Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. 

The sage's and the poet's theme, 

In every clime, in every age ; 
Thou charm' st in Fancy's idle dream, 

In Reason's philosophic page. 

That very law which moulds a tear, 

And bids it trickle from its source, 
That law preserves the earth a sphere, 

And guides the planets in their course. 



236 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 

Is the most classical of our living poets ; he carries his love of refine- 
ment to an excess that has injured his fame. The exquisite polish, the 
laboured sweetness, of the poet's verses, and the sustained grandeur of 
his pieces, have on some readers a cloying effect; but there are few 
modern bards whose works are more likely to be ranked among the 
standard classics of our language. 



THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND. 

[From The Pleasures of Hope.] 

Oh ! sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased a while, 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, 
When leagued oppression l pourd to northern wars, 
Her whisker d pandours 2 and her fierce hussars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang d her trumpet-horn : 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
Presaging wrath to Poland and to man ! 

Warsaw's last champion3 from her height survey'd, 
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid ; — 
Oh, Heaven ! he cried, my bleeding country save ! 
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, 
Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 
By that dread name we wave the sword on high ! 
And swear for her to live ! with her to die ! 

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd 
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd ; 



1 leagued oppression. Poland was invaded by the united forces of Austria, 

Russia, and Prussia. 

2 pandours, the irregular Austrian infantry. 

3 champion ; Kosciusko, the commander-in-chief of the Polish patriots. 






CAMPBELL. 237 

Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 
Low murmuring'sounds along their banners fly, 
Revenge or death, the watchword and reply ; 
Then peal'd the notes omnipotent to charm, 
And the loud tocsin 4 toll'd their last alarm ! 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few! 
From rank to rank your volley 1 d thunder flew : 
Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of time, 
Sarmatia 5 fell, unwept, without a crime ; 
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 
Droppd from her nerveless grasp the shatter d spear, 
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career : 
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
And Freedom shriek 1 d as Kosciusko fell ! 

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there ; 
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air ; 
On Prague's proud arch 6 the fires of ruin glow, 
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below ; 
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, 
Bursts the wide cry of horror Jand dismay ! 
Hark ! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, 
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ; 
Earth shook, red meteors flash'd along the sky, 
And conscious Nature shudder 1 d at the cry ! 

Oh, righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave, 

Why slept the sword omnipotent to save ? 

Where was thine arm, O Vengeance ! where thy rod, 

That smote the foes of Zion and of God ; 

That crush 1 d proud Ammon7, when his iron car 

Was yoked in wrath, and thunder 1 d from afar ? 



4 tocsin, alarm bell, 5 Sarmatia, the ancient name of Poland. 

6 arch, alluding to the massacre on the bridge of Prague. 

7 Ammon, the Egyptian people. 



238 CAMPBELL. 

Where was the storm that slumber' d till the host 
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast ; 
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, 
And heaved an ocean on their march below ? 

Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! 
Ye that at Marathon 8 and Leuctra^ bled ! 
Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man, 
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van ! 
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, 
And make her arm puissant as your own ! 
Oh ! once again to freedom's cause return 
The patriot Tell, — the Bruce 10 of Bannockburn ! 

Yes ! thy proud lords, unpitied land ! shall see 
That man hath yet a soul, and dare be free ! 
A little while, along thy saddening plains, 
The starless night of desolation reigns ; 
Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, 
And, like Prometheus 11 , bring the fire of heaven ! 
Prone to the dust, Oppression shall be hurl'd, 
Her name, her nature, wither' d from the world ! 



IMAGINATION,— HOPE. 



Above, below, in ocean, earth, and sky, 
Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie, 
And Hope attends, companion of the way, 
Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day ! 
In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere 
That gems the starry girdle of the year ; 

8 Marathon, where the Greeks defeated the Persian invaders. 

9 Leuctra, where the Thebans overthrew their Spartan oppressors. 

10 Bruce. Robert Bruce established the independence of Scotland by the 

victory of Bannockburn. 

11 Prometheus. Prometheus, according to the Grecian mythologists. stole fire 

from heaven. 



CAMPBELL. 239 

In those unmeasured worlds she bids thee tell, 
Pure from their God created millions dwell, 
Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below, 
We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know ; 
For, as Iona's saint, a giant form, 
Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm, 
(When o'er each Runic i altar, weed-entwined, 
The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,) 
Counts every wave-worn isle and mountain hoar, 
From Kilda 2 to the green Ierne's 3 shore ; 
So, when thy pure and renovated mind, 
This perishable dust hath left behind, 
Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, 
Like distant isles embosom' d in the main ; 
Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, 
And light and life in mingling torrent ran ; 
From whence each bright rotundity was hurl'd, 
The throne of God, — the centre of the world ! 
****** 
Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers burn, 
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! 
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour, 
Oh ! then, thy kingdom comes ! immortal power ! 
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly, 
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! 
Bright to the soul thy seraph-hands convey 
The morning dream of life's eternal day ; 
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, 
And all the phoenix spirit burns within ! 

Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, 
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! 
Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, 
It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 

1 Runic,' marked with the runes, or letters, anciently used by the northern 

nations. 

2 Kilda, an island west of Scotland. 3 Ierne, Ireland. 



240 CAMPBELL. 

Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun ! 
Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, 
From your unfathom'd shades and viewless spheres, 
A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 
Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, 
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! 
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, 
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
And, like the trembling Hebrew 4 , when he trod 
The roaring waves, and cail'd upon his God, 
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 

Daughter of Faith ! awake, arise, illume, 
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ; 
Melt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll 
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul ! 
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay, 
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! 
The strife is o'er — the pangs of Nature close, 
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. 
Hark ! as the spirit eyes with eagle gaze, 
The noon of heaven undazzled by the blaze, 
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ; 
Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail 
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, 
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still 
Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill. 



THE LAST MAN. 



All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 
The sun himself must die, 

4 Hebrew, St. Peter. 



CAMPBELL. 241 

Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep, 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of Time ! 
I saw the last of human mould, 
That shall Creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime ! 

The sun's eye had a sickly glare, 

The earth with age was wan, 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man ! 
Some had expired in fight, — the brands 1 
Still rusted in their bony hands ; 

In plague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ! 

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words and high, 
That shook the sere 2 leaves from the wood, 

As if a storm passd by, 
Saying, We are twins in death, proud sun, 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'Tis mercy bids thee go ; 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 

That shall no longer flow. 

What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, 

The vassals of his will ; 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
Thou dim discrowned king of day : 

1 brands, swords. 2 sere, withered. 



242 CAMPBELL. 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Heal'd not a passion or a pang 

Entail' d on human hearts* 

Go, — let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men, 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again. 
Its piteous pageants bring not back* 
Nor waken flesh upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe ; 
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd* 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire; 
Test of all sumless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death, — 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, — 
The majesty of Darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost ! 

This spirit shall return to Him 

That gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No ! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine : 

By Him recall'd to breath, 
Who captive led captivity, 
Who robb'd the grave of victory, 

And took the sting from Death ! 



, CAMPBELL. 243 



Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 

On Nature's awful waste, 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste ; 
Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw' st the last of Adam's race, 

On Earth's sepulchral clod, 
The darkening universe defy 
To quench his immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God ! 



TO THE RAINBOW. 

Triumphant arch, that fill'st the sky 
When storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud Philosophy 
To teach me what thou art. 

Still seem as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given, 
For happy spirits to alight 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that Optics teach unfold 

Thy form to please me so, 
As when I dreamt of gems and gold 

Hid in thy radiant bow ? 

When Science from Creation's face 
Enchantment's veil withdraws, 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws ! 

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, 
But words of the Most High, 

Have told why first thy robe of beams 
Was woven in the sky. 

Q2 



244 CAMPBELL. 

When o'er the green, undeluged earth, 
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, 

How came the world's gray fathers forth 
To watch thy sacred sign ! 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 
O'er mountains yet untrod, 

Each mother held aloft her child 
To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, 
The first-made anthem rang 

On earth deliver'd from the deep, 
And the first poet sang. 

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 
Unraptured greet thy beam : 

Theme of primeval prophecy, 
Be still the poet's theme ! 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 
The lark thy welcome sings, 

When, glittering in the freshen'd fields, 
The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O'er mountain, tower, and town, 

Or mirror' d in the ocean vast, 
A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fresh in yon horizon dark, 
As young thy beauties ^eem, 

As when the eagle from the ark 
First sported in thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page, 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age, 
That first spoke peace to man. 









CAMPBELL. 245 

HOHENLINDENl. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser 2 , rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array' d, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh" d, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow, 
On Linden s hills of stained snow ; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank 3 , and fiery Hun 4 , 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich 5 ! all thy banners wave ! 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

1 Hohenlinden, a village in Germany, 3 Frank, the French. 

where the Austrians and Bava- 4 Hun, the Austrian. 

rians were completely defeated by 5 Munich, the capital of Bavaria ; 

the French under Moreau. here, the Bavarian army. 

2 Iser, the Danube. 



246 CAMPBELL. 

Few, few, shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall mark the soldier's cemet'ry6. 



JAMES MONTGOMERY 

Is one of the most amiable and pathetic of our modern writers. He re- 
sembles Cowper in the union of pure piety with great poetic talent ; but 
his views of life are not shaded by the melancholy which darkened the. 
mind of the poet of Olney. 

Though Montgomery cannot be ranked in the first class of poets, he 
holds a high place among those of a secondary order, and merits the 
praise of never having written a line that did not tend directly to the 
honour of God and the good of man. 



THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 

[From The World before the Flood.] 

Who was the fugitive ? In infancy, 
A youthful mother's only hope was he, 
Whose spouse and kindred, on a festal day, 
Precipitate destruction swept away ; 
Earth trembled, open'd, and entomb'd them all ; 
She saw them sinking, heard their voices call 
Beneath the gulf, — and, agonized, aghast, 
On the wild verge of eddying ruin cast, 
Felt in one pang, at that convulsive close, 
A widow's anguish, and a mother's throes : 
A babe sprang forth, an inauspicious birth, 
When all had perish'd that she loved on earth. 

6 cemeVry, a grave. 



MONTGOMERY, 247 

Forlorn and helpless, on the upriven ground, 
The parent, with her offspring, Enoch found : 
And thence, with tender care and timely aid, 
Home to the patriarch's glen his charge convey'd. 

Restored to life, one pledge of former joy, 
One source of bliss to come, remain'd, — her boy ! 
Sweet in her eye the cherish' d infant rose, 
At once the seal and solace of her woes ; 
When the pale widow clasp' d him to her breast, 
Warm gush'd the tears, and would not be repress'd ; 
In lonely anguish, when the truant child 
Leap'd o'er the threshold, all the mother smiled. 
In him, while fond imagination view'd 
Husband and parents, brethren, friends renew'd, 
Each vanish'd look, each well-rememberd grace, 
That pleased in them, she sought in Javan's face ; 
For quick his eye, and changeable its ray, 
As the sun glancing through a vernal day ; 
And like the lake, by storm or moonlight seen, 
With darkening furrows or cerulean mien, 
His countenance, the mirror of his breast, , 
The calm or trouble of his soul express'd. 

As years enlarged his form, in moody hours, 
His mind betray'd its weakness with its powers ; 
Alike his fairest hopes and strangest fears 
Were nursed in silence, or divulged with tears ; 
The fulness of his heart repress'd his tongue, 
Though none might rival Javan when he sung. 
He loved, in lonely indolence reclined, 
To watch the clouds, and listen to the wind. 
But from the north when snow and tempest came, 
His nobler spirit mounted into flame ; 
With stern delight he roam'd the howling woods, 
Or hung in ecstasy o'er headlong floods. 



248 MONTGOMERY. 

Meanwhile, excursive fancy long'd to view 

The world, which yet by fame alone he knew ; 

The joys of freedom were his daily theme, 

Glory the secret of his midnight dream ; 

That dream he told not ; though his heart would ache, 

His home was precious for his mothers sake. 

With her the lowly paths of peace he ran, 

His guardian angel, till he verged to man ; 

But when her weary eye could watch no more, 

When to the grave her timeless corse he bore, 

Not Enoch's counsels could his steps restrain ; 

He fled, and sojourn d in the land of Cain. 

There, when he heard the voice of Jubal's lyre, 

Instinctive genius caught the ethereal fire ; 

And soon, with sweetly-modulating skill, 

He learn' d to wind the passions at his will, 

To rule the chords with such mysterious art, 

They seem'd the life-strings of the hearer's heart ! 

Then Glory's opening field he proudly trod, 

Forsook the worship and the ways of God, 

Round the vain world pursued the phantom Fame, 

And cast away his birth-right for a name, 

Yet no delight the minstrel's bosom knew, 
None save the tones that from his harp he drew, 
And the warm visions of a wayward mind, 
Whose transient splendour left a gloom behind, 
Frail as the clouds of sunset, and as fair, 
Pageants of light, resolving into air. 
The world, whose charms his young affections stole, 
He found too mean for an immortal soul ; 
Wound with his life, through all his feelings wrought, 
Death and eternity possess'd his thought ; 
Remorse impell'd him, unremitting care 
Harass'd his path, and stung him to despair. 
Still was the secret of his griefs unknown ; 
Amidst the universe he sigh'd alone ; 



MONTGOMERY. 249 

The fame he follow'd, and the fame he found, 
Heal'd not his heart's immedicable wound ; 
Admired, applauded, crown d, where'er he roved, 
The bard was homeless, friendless, unbeloved. 
All else that breathed below the circling sky, 
Were link'd to earth by some endearing tie ; 
He only, like the ocean-weed uptorn, 
And loose along the world of waters borne, 
Was cast, companionless, from wave to wave, 
On life's rough sea, — and there was none to save, 



GREENLAND. 



The moon is watching in the sky ; the stars 

Are swiftly wheeling on their golden cars ; 

Ocean outstretch'd with infinite expanse, 

Serenely slumbers in a glorious trance ; 

The tide, o'er which no troubling spirits breathe, 

Reflects a cloudless firmament beneath ; 

Where, poised as in the centre of a sphere, 

A ship above and ship below appear ; 

A double image, pictured on the deep, 

The vessel o'er its shadow seems to sleep ; 

Yet, like the host of Heaven, that never rest, 

With evanescent motion to the west, 

The pageant glides through loneliness and night, 

And leaves behind a rippling wake of light. 

Hark ! through the calm and silence of the scene, 
Slow, solemn, sweet, with many a pause between, 
Celestial music swells along the air ! 
— No ! 'tis the evening hymn of praise and prayer 
From yonder deck, where, on the stern retired, 
Three humble voyagers 1 , with looks inspired, 

1 voyagers, the first Christian missionaries to Greenland. 



250 MONTGOMERY. 

And hearts enkindled with a holier flame 

Than ever lit to empire or to fame, 

Devoutly stand : their choral accents rise 

On wings of harmony beyond the skies ; 

And, 'midst the songs that seraph-minstrels sing, 

Day without night, to their immortal King, 

These simple strains, — which erst Bohemian hills 

Echoed to pathless woods and desert rills, 

Now heard from Shetland's azure bound, — are known 

In heaven ; and He, who sits upon the throne 

In human form, with mediatorial power, 

Remembers Calvary, and hails the hour, 

When, by th' Almighty Father's high decree, 

The utmost north to Him shall bow the knee, 

And, won by love, an untamed rebel-race 

Kiss the victorious sceptre of His grace. 

Then to His eye, whose instant glance pervades 

Heaven's heights, Earth's circle, Hell's profoundest shades, 

Is there a group more lovely than those three 

Night-watching pilgrims on the lonely sea ? 

Or to His ear, that gathers, in one sound, 

The voices of adoring worlds around, 

Comes there a breath of more delightful praise 

Than the faint notes his poor disciples raise, 

Ere on the treacherous main they sink to rest, 

Secure as leaning on their Master's breast ? 

They sleep ; but memory wakes ; and dreams array 
Night in a lively masquerade of day ; 
The land they seek, the land they leave behind, 
Meet on mid-ocean in the plastic mind ; 
One brings forsaken home and friends so nigh, 
That tears in slumber swell th' unconscious eye : 
The other opens, with prophetic view, 
Perils, which e'en their fathers never knew 
(Though school' d by suffering, long inured to toil, 
Outcasts and exiles from their natal soil) : 



MONTGOMERY. 251 

— Strange scenes, strange men ; untold, untried distress 

Pain, hardships, famine, cold, and nakedness, 

Diseases ; death in every hideous form, 

On shore, at sea, hy fire, hy flood, by storm ; 

Wild beasts, and wilder men : — unmoved with fear, 

Health, comfort, safety, life, they count not dear, 

May they but hope a Saviour's love to show, 

And warn one spirit from eternal woe : 

Nor will they faint, nor can they strive in vain, 

Since thus to live is Christ, to die is gain. 

Tis morn : the bathing moon her lustre shrouds ; 
Wide o'er the east impends an arch of clouds, 
That spans the ocean ; while the infant dawn 
Peeps through the portal o'er the liquid lawn, 
That ruffled by an April-gale appears, 
Between the gloom and splendour of the spheres, 
Dark-purple as the moorland-heath, when rain 
Hangs in low vapours o'er th' autumnal plain: 
Till the fall sun, resurgent from the flood, 
Looks on the waves, and turns them into blood ; 
But quickly kindling, as his beams aspire, . 
The lambent billows play in forms of fire. 
— Where is the vessel ? Shining through the light, 
Like the white sea-fowl's horizontal flight, 
Yonder she wings, and skims, and cleaves her way 
Through refluent foam and iridescent spray. 



THE PELICAN ISLAND. 

Light as a flake of foam upon the wind, 
Keel upward from the deep emerged a shell, 
Shaped like the moon ere half her horn is fill'd 
Fraught with young life, it righted as it rose, 
And moved at will along the yielding water. 



252 MONTGOMERY. 

The native pilot of this little bark 
Put out a tier of oars on either side, 
Spread to the wafting breeze a twofold sail, 
And mounted up and glided down the billow 
In happy freedom, pleased to feel the air, 
And wander in the luxury of light. 
Worth all the dead creation, in that hour, 
To me appear' d this lonely Nautilus, 
My fellow-being, like myself alive. 
Entranced in contemplation vague yet sweet, 
I watch' d its vagrant course and rippling wake, 
Till I forgot the sun amidst the heavens. 

It closed, sunk, dwindled to a point, then nothing ; 
While the last bubble crown' d the dimpling eddy, 
Through which mine eye still giddily pursued it, 
A joyous creature vaulted through the air, — 
The aspiring fish that fain would be a bird, 
On long, light wings, that flung a diamond shower 
Of dew-drops round its evanescent form, 
Sprang into light, and instantly descended. 
Ere I could greet the stranger as a friend, 
Or mourn his quick departure, on the surge, 
A shoal of Dolphins, tumbling in wild glee, 
Glow'd with such orient tints, they might have been 
The rainbow's offspring, when it met the ocean 
In that resplendent vision I had seen. 
While yet in ecstasy I hung o'er these, 
With every motion pouring out fresh beauties, 
As though the conscious colours came and went 
At pleasure, glorying in their subtle changes,— < 
Enormous o'er the flood, Leviathan 
Look'd forth, and from his roaring nostrils sent 
Two fountains to the sky, then plunged amain 
In headlong pastime through the closing gulf. 






MONTGOMERY. 253 

THE COMMON LOT. 

Once in the flight of ages past, 

There lived a man ; — and who was he ! 

— Mortal ! howe'er thy lot he cast, 
That man resembled thee. 

Unknown the region of his birth, 

The land in which he died unknown : 

His name has perish'd from the earth, 
This truth survives alone : — 

That joy and grief, and hope and fear, 

Alternate triumph'd in his breast : 
His bliss and woe, — a smile, a tear ! 

— Oblivion hides the rest. 

The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 

The changing spirits' rise and fall ; 
We know that these were felt by him,/ 

For these are felt by all. 

He suffer d, — but his pangs are o'er ; 

Enjoy'd, — but his delights are fled ; 
Had friends, — his friends are now no more; 

And foes, — his foes are dead, v 

He loved, — but whom he loved, the grave 

Hath lost in its unconscious womb : 
O she was fair, — but nought could save 

Her beauty from the tomb. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 

Encounter' d all that troubles thee ; 
He wasi^-whatever thou hast been ; 

He is — what thou shalt be. 

The rolling seasons, day and night, 

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 

Erewhile his portion, life and light, 
To him exist in vain. 



254 MONTGOMERY. 

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
That once their shades and glory threw, 

Have left in yonder silent sky 
No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the human race, 
Their ruins, since the world began, 

Of him afford no other trace 

Than this, — There lived a man ! 



THE CAST-AWAY SHIP. 

A vessel sail'd from Albion's shore, 

To utmost India bound, 
Its crest a hero's pendant bore, 

With broad sea-laurels crown' d 
In many a fierce and noble fight, 
Though foil'd on that Egyptian night 

When Gallia's host was drown' d, 
And Nelson, o'er his country's foes, 
Like the destroying angel rose. 

A gay and gallant company, 
With shouts that rend the air, 

For warrior-wreaths upon the sea, 
Their joyful brows prepare : 

But many a maiden's sigh was sent, 

And many a mother's blessing went, 
And many a father's prayer, 

With that exulting ship to sea, 

With that undaunted company. 

The deep that, like a cradled child, 

In breathing slumber lay, 
More warmly blush' d, more sweetly smiled, 

As rose the kindling day : 



MONTGOMERY. 255 

Through oceans mirror, dark and clear, 
Reflected clouds and skies appear 

In morning's rich array ; 
The land is lost, the waters glow, 
'Tis heaven above, around, below. 

Majestic o'er the sparkling tide, 

See the tall vessel sail, 
With swelling wings in shadowy pride, 

A swan before the gale : 
Deep-laden merchants rode behind : 
— But, fearful of the fickle wind, 

Britannia's cheek grew pale, 
When, lessening through the flood of light, 
Their leader vanish'd from her sight. 

Oft had she hail'd its trophied prow, 

Victorious from the war, 
And banner' d masts that would not bow, 

Though riven with many a scar ; 
Oft had her oaks their tribute brought, 
To rib its flanks, with thunder fraught ; 

But late her evil star 
Had cursed it on its homeward way, 
— " The spoiler shall become the prey." 

Thus warn'd, Britannia's anxious heart 

Throbb'd with prophetic woe : 
When she beheld that ship depart, 

A fair ill-omen'd show ! 
So views the mother, through her tears, 
The daughter of her hopes and fears, 

When hectic beauties glow 
On the frail cheek, where sweetly bloom 
The roses of an early tomb. 

No fears the brave adventurers knew, 

Peril and death they spurn d : 
Like full-fledged eagles forth they flew, 

Jove's birds, that proudly burn'd, 



256 MONTGOMERY. 

In battle-hurricanes to wield 

His lightnings on the billowy field ; 

And many a look they turn'd 
O'er the blue waste of waves, to spy 
A Gallic ensign in the sky. 

— _^ But not to crush the vaunting foe, 

In combat on the main, 
Nor perish by a glorious blow, 

In mortal triumph slain, 
Was their unutterable fate ; 
— That story would the muse relate, 

The song might rise in vain ; 
In ocean's deepest, darkest bed, 
The secret slumbers with the dead. 

On India's long-expecting strand 

Their sails were never furl'd — 

Never on known or friendly land 

By storms their keel was hurl'd ; 
Their native soil no more they trod, 
They rest beneath no hallow'd sod ; 

Throughout the living world. 
This sole memorial of their lot 
Remains, — they were, and they are not. 

The spirit of the Cape pursued 

Their long and toilsome way ; 
At length, in ocean solitude, 
He sprang upon his prey : 
" Havoc ! " the shipwreck-demon cried, 
Loosed all his tempests on the tide, 

Gave all his lightnings play ; 
The abyss recoil'd before the blast, 
Firm stood the seamen till the last. 

Like shooting stars, athwart the gloom 
The merchant-sails were sped ; 

Yet oft, before its midnight doom, 
They mark'd the high mast-head 






MONTGOMERY, 257 

Of that devoted vessel toss'd 

By winds and floods, now seen, now lost ; 

While every gun-fire spread 
A dimmer flash, a fainter roar : 
— At length they saw, they heard no more. 

There are to whom that ship was dear, 

For love and kindred's sake ; 
When these the voice of Rumour hear, 

Their inmost heart shall quake, 
Shall doubt, and fear, and wish, and grieve, 
Believe, and long to unbelieve, 

But never cease to ache ; 
Still doom'd, in sad suspense, to bear 
The Hope that keeps alive Despair. 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 

A mothers love-^how sweet the name ! 

What is a mother's love? 
— A noble, pure, and tender flame, 

Enkindled from above, 
To bless a heart of earthly mould ; 
The warmest love that can grow cold ; 

This is a mother's love. 

To bring a helpless babe to light, 

Then, while it lies forlorn, 
To gaze upon that dearest sight, 
* And feel herself new-born, 
In its existence lose her own, 
And live and breathe in it alone ; 

This is a mother's love. 

Its weakness in her arms to bear : 

To cherish on her breast, 
Feed it from love's own fountain there, 

And lull it there to rest ; 

R 



!58 MONTGOMERY. 

Then while it slumbers watch its breath, 
As if to guard from instant death ; 
This is a mother's love. 

To mark its growth from day to day, 
Its opening charms admire, 

Catch from its eye the earliest ray 
Of intellectual fire ; 

To smile and listen while it talks, 
. And lend a finger when it walks ; 
This is a mother s love. 

And can a mother s love grow cold ? 

Can she forget her boy ? 
His pleading innocence behold, 

Nor weep for grief — for j oy ? 
A mother may forget her child, 
While wolves devour it on the wild ; 

— Is this a mother's love ? 

Ten thousand voices answer " No !" 
Ye clasp your babes and kiss ; 

Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow ; 
Yet, ah ! remember this ; 

The infant, rear'd alone for earth, 

May live, may die, — to curse his birth ; 
— Is this a mother s love ? 

A parent's heart may prove a snare ; 

The child she loves so well, 
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care, 

Down the smooth road to hell ; 
Nourish its frame, — destroy its mind : 
Thus do the blind mislead the blind, 

Ev'n with a mother's love. 

Blest infant S whom his mother taught 

Early to seek the Lord, 
And pour'd upon his dawning thought 

The day-spring of the word ; 



WALTER SCOTT. 271 

CORONACH l. 

[From The Lady of the Lake.] 

He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain, 

"When our need was the sorest. 
The font, reappearing, 

From the rain-drops shall borrow, 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary 
But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory ; 
The autumn winds rushing, 

Waft the leaves that are searest, 
But our flower was in flushing 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi 2 , 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray 3 , 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 

Thou art gone, and for ever ! 



LAMENT. 

" And art thou cold and lowly laid, 
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, 
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade ! 

1 Coronach, a funeral song. 2 correi, the hollow side of the hill 

3 foray, a plundering expedition. where game usually lies. 



272 WALTER SCOTT. 

For thee shall none a requiem say ? 
For thee, who loved the minstrel's lay, — 
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay, 
The shelter of her exiled line, 
E'en in this prison-house of thine, 
I'll wail for Alpine's honour' d pine ! 
" What groans shall yonder valleys fill ! 
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill ! 
What tears of burning rage shall thrill, 
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done, 
Thy fall before the race was won, 
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun ! 
There breathes not clansman of thy line, 
But would have given his life for thine ; — 
O woe for Alpine's honour' d pine ! 

" Sad was thy lot on mortal stage ! — 
The captive thrush may brook the cage, 
The prison'd eagle dies for rage. 
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain ! 
And when its notes awake again, 
Even she so long beloved in vain, 
Shall with my harp her voice combine, 
And mix her woe and tears with mine : 
To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd pine !" 









LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN. 

My hawk is tired of perch and hood, 
My idle greyhound loathes his food, 
My horse is weary of his stall, 
And I am sick of captive thrall. 
I wish I were as I have been, 
Hunting the hart in forest green, 
With bended bow and blood-hound free, 
For that's the life is meet for me. 






WALTER SCOTT. 273 

I hate to learn the ebb of time, 
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, 
Or mark it as the sun-beams crawl, 
Inch after inch, along the wall. 
The lark was wont my matins ring, 
The sable rook my vespers sing ; 
These towers, although a kings they be, 
Have not a hall of joy for me. 

No more at dawning morn I rise, 
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes, 
Drive the fleet deer the forest through, 
And homeward wend with evening dew ; 
A blithesome welcome blithely meet, 
And lay my trophies at her feet, 
While fled the eve on wing of glee, — 
That life is lost to love and me ! 



THE VOYAGE THROUGH THE WESTERN ISLES. 
[From The Lord of the Isles.] 

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark, 

She bounds before the gale ; 
The mountain- breeze from Ben-na-darch 

Is joyous in her sail ! 
With fluttering sound, like laughter hoarse, 

The cords and canvass strain ; 
The waves, divided by her force, 
In rippling eddies chased her course, 

As if they laugh' d again. 
Not down the breeze more blithely flew, 
Skimming the wave, the light sea-mew, 

Than the gay galley bore 
Her course upon that favouring wind, 
And Coolin's 1 crest has sunk behind, 

And Slapin's cavern d shore. 

1 Coolin ; These and the following names belong to various places in the 
Western Isles of Scotland. 



274 WALTER SCOTT. 

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark 

O'er the broad ocean driven ; 
Her path by Ronin's mountains dark 

The steersman's hand hath given ; 
And Ronin's mountains dark have sent 

Their hunters to the shore, 
And each his ashen bow unbent, 

And gave his pastime o'er, 
And at the Island Lord's command, 
For hunting-spear took warrior's brand. 

Merrily, merrily goes the bark 

On a breeze from the northward free, 
So shoots through the morning sky the lark, 

Or the swan through the summer sea. 
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, 
And Ulva dark and Colonsay, 
And all the groups of islets gay 

That guard famed Staflfa round. 
Then all unknown its columns rose, 
Where dark and undisturb'd repose 

The cormorant had found ; 
And the shy seal had quiet home, 
And welter'd in that wond'rous dome, 
Where, as to shame the temples deck'd 
By skill of earthly architect, 
Nature herself, it seem'd, would raise 
A minster to her Maker's praise ! 
Not for a meaner use ascend 
Her columns, or her arches bend ; 
Nor of a theme less solemn tells 
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,. 
And still, between each awful pause, 
From the high vault an answer draws, 
In varied tone, prolong'd and high, 
That mocks the organ's melody. 



WALTER SCOTT. 275 

Nor doth its entrance front in vain 

To old Iona's holy fane, 

That Nature's voice might seem to say, 

" Well hast thou done, frail child of clay ! 

Thy humble powers that stately shrine 

Task'd high and hard, — but witness mine !" 

Merrily, merrily goes the bark, 

Before the gale she bounds ; 
So darts the dolphin from the shark, 

Or the deer before the hounds. 
They left Loch Tua on their lee, 
And they waken" d the men of the wild Tiree, 

And the chief of the sandy Coll ; 
They paused not at Columba's isle, 
Though peal'd the bells from the holy pile 

With long and measured toll ; 
No time for matin or for mass, 
And the sounds of the holy summons pass 

Away in the billows' roll. 
Lochbuie's fierce and warlike lord 
Their signal saw, and grasp' d his sword, 
And verdant Islay call'd her host, 
And the clans of Jura's rugged coast 

Lord Ronald's call obey, 
And Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore 
Still rings to Corrievrekin's roar, 

And lonely Colonsay ; 
— Scenes sung by him who sings no more ! 
His bright and brief career is o'er, 

And mute his tuneful strains ; 
Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, 
That loved the light of song to pour ; 
A distant and a deadly shore 

Has Leyden's 1 cold remains ! 

1 Leyden, a sweet poet, and a distinguished oriental scholar. He died in Java, 
A.D. 1811. 

S 2 



I 

276 WALTER SCOTT. 

ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOEl. 

" O tell me, harper, wherefore flow 
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe 
Far down the desert of Glencoe, 

Where none may list their melody ? 
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly, 
Or to the dun deer glancing by, 
Or to the eagle that from high 

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy ? " 

" No, not to these, for they have rest ; 
The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest, 
The stag his lair, the erne her nest, 

Abode of lone security. 
But those for whom I pour the lay, 
Not wild-wood deep, nor mountains gray, 
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day, 

Could screen from treach'rous cruelty. 

" Their flag was fuiTd, and mute their drum, 
The very household-dogs were dumb, 
Unwont to bay at guests that come 

In guise of hospitality. 
His blithest notes the piper plied, 
Her gayest snood the maiden tied, 
The dame her distaff flung aside, 

To tend her kindly housewifery. 

" The hand that mingled in the meal, 
At midnight drew the felon steel, 
And gave the host's kind breast to feel 



1 The shocking massacre of the clan M'Donald was perpetrated in Glencoe, 
during the reign of William III. ; though the monarch did not directly 
sanction the atrocity, his neglecting to punish the authors of it leaves an 
indelible stain on his character. 



WALTER SCOTT. 277 

Meed for his hospitality ! 
The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand, 
At midnight arm'd it with the brand, 
That bade destruction s flames expand 

Their red and fearful blazonry. 
" Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, 
Nor infancy's unpitied plain, 
More than the warrior's groan, could gain 

Respite from ruthless butchery ! 
The winter wind that whistled shrill, 
The snows that night that choked the hill, 
Though wild and pitiless, had still 

Far more than southron clemency. 
" Long have my harp's best notes been gone, 
Ifew are its strings, and faint their tone, 
They can but sound in desert lone 

Their gray-hair'd master's misery. 
Were each gray hair a minstrel-string, 
Each chord should imprecations fling, 
Till startled Scotland loud should ring, 

6 Revenge for blood and treachery ! ' " 



THE AGED MINSTREL. 

[From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.] 

The way was long, the wind was cold, 
The Minstrel was infirm and old ; 
His wither'd eheek, and tresses gray, 
Seem'd to have known a better day ; 
The harp, his sole remaining joy, 
Was carried by an orphan boy. 
The last of all the bards was he, 
Who sung of Border chivalry. 
For, well-a-day ! their date was fled, 
His tuneful brethren all were dead : 



278 WALTER SCOTT. 

And he, neglected and oppress' d, 

Wish'd to be with them, and at rest. 

No more, on prancing palfrey borne, 

He caroll'd, light as lark at morn ; 

No longer courted and caress'd, 

High placed in hall, a welcome guest, 

He pour'd, to lord and lady gay, 

The unpremeditated lay : 

Old times were changed, old manners gone ; 

A stranger fill'd the Stuarts' throne ; 

The bigots of the iron time 

Had call'd his harmless art a crime. 

A wandering harper, scorn' d and poor, 

He begg'd his bread from door to door ; 

And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, 

The harp a king had loved to hear. 



MELROSE ABBEY. 

[From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.] 

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 

Go visit it by the pale moon-light ; 

For the gay beams of lightsome day 

Gild but to flout the ruins gray. 

When the broken arches are black in night, 

And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; 

When the cold light's uncertain shower 

Streams on the ruin'd central tower ; 

When buttress and buttress alternately 

Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 

When silver edges the imagery, 

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; 

When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave ; 



WALTER SCOTT. 279 

Then go — but go alone the while — 
Then view St. David's mind pile ; 
And, home returning, soothly swear, 
Was never scene so sad and fair ! 









BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE. 
[From The Lady of the Lake.] 

The minstrel came once more to view 
The eastern ridge of Ben-venue, 
For, ere he parted, he would say 
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray — 
Where shall he find, in foreign land, 
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ! — ■ 
There is no breeze upon the fern, 

No ripple on the lake, 
Upon her eyrie nods the erne, 

The deer has sought the brake ; 
The small birds will not sing aloud, 

The springing trout lies still, 
So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud, 
That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 

Benledi's distant hill. 
Is it the thunders solemn sound 

That mutters deep and dread, 
Or echoes from the groaning ground 

The warrior 1 s measured tread ? 
Is it the lightning s quivering glance 

That on the thicket streams ; 
Or do they flash on spear and lance, 

The suns retiring beams? 
— I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
I see the Moray's silver star, 
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, 
That up the lake comes winding far ! 



280 WALTER SCOTT. 

To hero Boune for battle-strife, 

Or bard of martial lay, 
T were worth ten years of peaceful life, 

One glance at their array ! 

Their light-arm' d archers far and near 

Survey 'd the tangled ground, 
Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, 

A twilight forest frown'd ; 
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear, 

The stern battalia crown d. 
No cymbal clash' d, no clarion rang, 

Still were the pipe and drum ; 
Save heavy tread, and armour's clang, 

The sullen march was dumb. 
There breathed no wind their crests to shake, 

Or wave their flags abroad ; 
Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake, 

That shadow'd o'er their road. 
Their va'ward scouts no tidings bring, 

Can rouse no lurking foe, 
Nor spy a trace of living thing, 

Save when they stirr'd the roe ; 
The host moves like a deep-sea wave, 
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, 

High-swelling, dark, and slow. 
The lake is pass"d, and now they gain 
A narrow and a broken plain, 
Before the Trosach's rugged jaws ; 
And here the horse and spearmen pause, 
While, to explore the dangerous glen, 
Dive through the pass the archer-men. 

At once there rose so wild a yell 
Within that dark and narrow dell, 
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, 
Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell ! 



WALTER SCOTT. 281 

Forth from the pass in tumult driven, 
Like chaff before the wind of heaven, 

The archery appear : 
For life ! for life ! their flight they ply— 
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, 
And plaids and bonnets waving high, 
And broadswords flashing to the sky, 

Are maddening in the rear. 
Onward they drive, in dreadful race, 

Pursuers and pursued ; 
Before that tide of flight and chase, 
How shall it keep its rooted place, 

The spearman's twilight wood ? 
— " Down, down ! " cried Mar ; " your lances down ! 

Bear back both friend and foe ! " 
Like reeds before the tempest's frown, 
That serried grove of lances brown 

At once lay levell'd low ; 
And closely shouldering side to side, 
The bristling ranks the onset bide. 
— " We'll quell the savage mountaineer, 

As their Tinchel 1 cows the game ! 
They come as fleet as forest-deer, 

We'll drive them back as tame." 

Bearing before them, in their course, 
The relics of the archer force, 
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, 
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. 
Above the tide, each broadsword bright 
Was brandishing like beam of light, 

Each targe was dark below ; 
And, with the ocean's mighty swing, 
When heaving to the tempest's wing, 

They hurl'd them on the foe. 

1 Tinchel, a circle made by hunters to enclose the deer. ? 



282 WALTER SCOTT. 

I heard the lance's shivering crash, 
As when the whirlwind rends the ash ; 
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang, 
As if an hundred anvils rang ! 
But Moray wheel'd his rear-ward rank 
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank : 

— " My banner-man, advance ! 
I see," he cried, " their column shake ! 
Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake, 

Upon them with the lance ! " 
The horsemen dash'd among the rout, 

As deer break through the broom ; 
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out, 

They soon make lightsome room. 
Clan- Alpine's best are backward borne — 

Where, where was Roderick then ? 
One blast upon his bugle-horn 

Were worth a thousand men. 
And refluent through the pass of fear 

The battle's tide was pour'd ; 
Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling spear, 

Vanish'd the mountain-sword. 
As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, 

Receives her roaring linn, 
As the dark caverns of the deep 

Suck the wild whirlpool in, 
So did the deep and darksome pass 
Devour the battle's mingled mass ; 
None linger now upon the plain, 
Save those who ne'er shall fight again. 






WALTER SCOTT. 283 

DEATH OF DE BOUNE. 

[From The Lord of the Isles.] 

gay, yet fearful to behold, 
Flashing with steel and rough with gold, 

And bristled o'er with bills and spears, 
With plumes and pennons waving fair, 
Was that bright battle-front ! for there 

Rode England's king and peers : 
And who, that saw the monarch ride, 
His kingdom battled by his side, 
Could then his direful doom foretel ! 
Fair was his seat in knightly selle l , 
And in his sprightly eye was set 
Some spark of the Plantagenet] 2 . 
Though light and wandering was his glance, 
It flash'd at sight of shield and lance. 
" Know'st thou," he said, " De Argentine, 
Yon knight who marshals Scotland's line ?"— 
" The tokens on his helmet tell 
The Bruce, my liege : I know him well." 
" And shall the audacious traitor brave ' 
The presence where our banners wave ?" 
" So please my liege," said Argentine, 
" Were he but horsed on steed like mine, 
To give him fair and knightly chance, 

1 would adventure forth my lance." 
" In battle-day," the king replied, 
" Nice tournay3 rules are set aside. 

— Still must the rebel dare our wrath ? 
Set on him — sweep him from our path !" 
And, at King Edward's signal, soon 
Dash'd from the ranks Sir Henry Boune. 

1 selle, seat on a horse. 2 Plantagenet, the name of the English 

3 tournay, a mock-combat. royal family at the period. 



284 WALTER SCOTT. 

Of Hereford's high blood he came, 

A race renown' d for knightly fame. 

He burn'd before his monarch's eye 

To do some deed of chivalry. 

He spurr'd his steed, he couch'd his lance, 

And darted on the Bruce at once. 

— As motionless as rocks, that bide 

The wrath of the advancing tide, 

The Bruce stood fast. Each breast beat high, 

And dazzled was each gazing eye ; 

The heart had hardly time to think, 

The eye-lid scarce had time to wink, 

While on the king, like flash of flame, 

Spurr'd to full speed the war-horse came ! 

The partridge may the falcon mock, 

If that slight palfrey stand the shock : 

But, swerving from the knight's career, 

Just as they met, Bruce shunn'd the spear. 

Onward the baffled warrior bore 

His course — but soon his course was o'er ! — 

High in his stirrups stood the king, 

And gave his battle-axe the swing. 

Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd, 

Fell that stern dint — the first — the last ! — 

Such strength upon the blow was put, 

The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut ; 

The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp, 

Was shiver'd to the gauntlet-grasp. 

Springs from the blow the startled horse, 

Drops to the plain the lifeless corse ; 

First of that fatal field, how soon, 

How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune ! 






285 



GEORGE CROLY, LL.D. 

Is a poet whose fame is inferior to his merits. He possesses an imagina- 
tion of a gorgeous and almost oriental cast : in all his descriptions, there 
is a profusion of magnificence and splendour, that shows the vast resources 
of the author's mind ; but which not unfrequently dazzles and confounds 
an ordinary reader. 



THE ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM. 

The air is fiTTd with shouts, and trumpets' sounding ; 

A host are at thy gates, Jerusalem. 

Now is their van the Mount of Olives rounding ; 

Above them Judah's lion-banners gleam, 

Twined with the palm and olive's peaceful stem. 

Now swell the nearer sounds of voice and string, 

As down the hill-side pours the living stream ; 

And to the cloudless heaven Hosannas ring 

" The Son of David comes ! the Conqueror — the King ! " 

The cuirass' d Roman heard, and grasp'd his shield, 
And rush'd in fiery haste to gate and tower; 
The pontiff from his battlement beheld 
The host, and knew the falling of his power : 
He saw the cloud on Sion's glory lour. 
Still down the marble road the myriads come, 
Spreading the way with garment, branch, and flower, 
And deeper sounds are mingling : " Woe to Rome ! 
The day of freedom dawns; rise, Israel, from thy tomb." 

Temple of beauty — long that day is done ; 
Thy ark is dust ; thy golden cherubim 
In the fierce triumphs of the foe are gone : 
The shades of ages on thy altars swim. 
Yet still a light is there, though wavering dim ! 
And has its holy lamp been watch' d in vain ? 
Or lives it not until the finish'd time, 
When He who fix'd, shall break his people's chain, 
And Sion be the loved, the crown' d of God again ? 



286 CROLY. 

He comes, yet with the burning bolt unarm'd ; 
Pale, pure, prophetic, God of Majesty ! 
Though thousands, tens of thousands, round him swarm'd, 
None durst abide that depth divine of eye ; 
None durst the waving of his robe draw nigh. 
But at his feet was laid the Roman's sword : 
There Lazarus knelt to see his King pass by ; 
There Jairus, with his age's child, adored. 
" He comes, the King of kings : Hosanna to the Lord ! " 



THE DEAD SEAL 

The wind blows chill across those gloomy waves ; 

Oh ! how unlike the green and dancing main ! 
The surge is foul, as if it roll'd o'er graves : 

Stranger, here lie the cities of the plain. 

Yes, on that plain, by wild waves cover'd now, 
Rose palace once, and sparkling pinnacle ; 

On pomp and spectacle beam'd morning's glow. 
On pomp and festival the twilight fell. 

Lovely and splendid all, — but Sodom's soul 

Was stain'd with blood, and pride, and perjury ; 

Long warn'd, long spared, till her whole heart was foul, 
And fiery vengeance on its clouds came nigh. 

And still she mock'd, and danced, and, taunting, spoke 
Her sportive blasphemies against the Throne : 

It came ! The thunder on her slumber broke : 

God spake the word of wrath ! — Her dream was done. 

Yet, in her final night, amid her stood 
Immortal messengers, and pausing Heaven 

Pleaded with man ; but she was quite imbued, 
Her last hour waned, she scorn' d to be forgiven ! 

The Dead Sea, called also the Asphaltic Lake. It occupies the site of the 
ancient cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. 



CROLY. 287 

'Twas done ! down pour d at once the sulphurous shower, 
Down stoop'd, in flame, the heaven s red canopy. 

Oh ! for the arm of God, in that fierce hour ! 
'Twas vain ; nor help of God or man was nigh. 

They rush, they bound, they howl, the men of sin ; 

Still stoop'd the cloud, still hurst the thicker blaze ; 
The earthquake heaved ! Then sank the hideous din ! 

Yon wave of darkness o'er their ashes strays. 



BELLATOR MORIENS1. 

In the dim chamber, on his couch of Ind, 
Hung round with crest, and sword, and knightly vane, 
Was stretch'd a cuirass'd form, that inly pined 
With memories keener than his mortal pain ; 
And oft around his darkening eyes would strain, 
As if some evil visitant were come ; 
Then press his wasted hand upon his brain, 
Mutter low words, and beckon through the gloom, 
And grasp his couch, as if he saw the opening tomb. 

The fearful secret murmur'd from his lips 

'Twas " Murder ; " but his voice was now a sigh ; 
For o'er his spirit gather'd swift eclipse. 
He strove to dash the darkness from his eye, 
Then smote with nerveless hand upon his thigh ; 
But there the sword was not ; a deeper groan, — 
A start, as if the summoner were nigh, — 
Told his last pangs ; his eye was fix'd as stone : — 
There lay a livid corse, the master of a throne ! 

1 BellatoT Moriens, the Dying Warrior. 



288 CROLY. 

THE RETREAT OF THE FRENCH ARMY FROM 
MOSCOW.* 

Magnificence of ruin ! what has time 
In all it ever gazed upon of war, 
Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime, 
Seen, with that battle's vengeance to compare ? 
How glorious shone the invader s pomp afar ! 
Like pamper d lions from the spoil they came ; 
The land before them silence and despair, 
The land behind them massacre and flame ; 
Blood will have tenfold blood. — What are they now ? A name. 

Homeward by hundred thousands, column deep, 
Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like the flood 
When mighty torrents from their channels leap, 
Rush'd through the land the haughty multitude, 
Billow on endless billow ; on through wood, 
O'er rugged hill, down sunless, marshy vale, 
The death-devoted moved, to clangor rude 
Of drum and horn and dissonant clash of mail, 
Glancing disastrous light before that sun-beam pale. 

Again they reach' d thee, Borodino 1 ! still 
Upon the loaded soil the carnage lay, 
The human harvest, now stark, stiff, and chill, 
Friend, foe, stretch'd thick together, clay to clay ; 
In vain the startled legions burst away ; 
The land was all one naked sepulchre, 
The shrinking eye still glanced on grim decay, 
Still did the hoof and wheel their passage tear, 
Through cloven helms and arms, and corpses mould' ring drear. 



1 Borodino, a river of Russia, where the French, in the beginning of the inva- 
sion, gained a brilliant victory ; but where they also suffered dreadful cala- 
mities in their retreat. 



CROLY. 289 

The field was as they left it ; fosse 2 and fort 
Steaming with slaughter still, but desolate, — 
The cannon flung dismantled by its porte ; 
Each knew the mound, the black ravine whose strait 
Was won and lost, and throng' d with dead, till fate 
Had fixed upon the victor — half undone. 
There was the hill, from which their eyes elate 
Had seen the burst of Moscow's golden zone ; 
But death was at their heels, they shudder' d and rush'd on. 

The hour of vengeance strikes. Hark to the gale ! 
As it bursts hollow through the rolling clouds, 
That from the north in sullen grandeur sail 
Like floating Alps. Advancing darkness broods 
Upon the wild horizon, and the woods, 
Now sinking into brambles, echo shrill, 
As the gust sweeps them, and those upper floods 
Shoot on their leafless boughs the sleet-drops chill, 
That on the hurrying crowds in freezing showers distil. 

They reach the wilderness ! The majesty 
Of solitude is spread before their gaze, 
Stern nakedness, — dark earth and wrathful sky. 
If ruins were there, they long had ceased to blaze ; 
If blood was shed, the ground no more betrays, 
Even by a skeleton, the crime of man ; 
Behind them rolls the deep and drenching haze, 
Wrapping their rear in night, before their van 
The struggling day-light shows the unmeasured desert wan. 

Still on they sweep, as if their hurrying march 
Could bear them from the rushing of His wheel 
Whose chariot is the whirlwind. Heaven's clear arch 
At once is cover d with a livid veil, 

2 fosse, ditch. 



290 CROLY. 

In mix'd and fighting heaps the deep clouds reel, 
Upon the dense horizon hangs the sun, 
In sanguine light, an orb of burning steel ; 
The snows wheel down through twilight, thick and dun ; 
Now tremble, men of blood, the judgment has begun ! 

The trumpet of the northern winds has blown, 
And it is answer d by the dying roar 
Of armies on that boundless field o'erthrown : 
Now in the awful gusts the desert hoar 
Is tempested, a sea without a shore, 
Lifting its feathery waves. The legions fly ; 
Volley on volley down the hailstones pour ; 
Blind, famish'd, frozen, mad, the wanderers die, 
And dying, hear the storm but wilder thunder by. 

Such is the hand of Heaven ! A human blow 
Had crush' d them in the fight, or flung the chain 
Round them where Moscow's stately towers were low, 
And all be still'd. But Thou3! thy battle plain 
Was a whole empire ; that devoted train 
Must war from day to day with storm and gloom, 
(Man following, like the wolves, to rend the slain,) 
Must lie from night to night as in a tomb, 
Must fly, toil, bleed for home ; yet never see that home. 



CZERNI GEORGE 4. 

'Twas noon ! a blood-red banner play'd 
Above thy rampart porte, Belgrade 5; 

3 Thou, Napoleon. 
Czerni George was the leader of an insurrection of the Servians against their 
Turkish masters. He obtained many victories ; but was finally overwhelmed, 
and forced to seek safety in llussia. After an absence of five years, he 
rashly returned in 1817, was betrayed to the Turks, and beheaded. The 
name Czerui, or black, was given him on account of his dark complexion, 
5 Belgrade, the capital of Servia. 



CROLY. 291 

From time to time the gongs deep swell 
Rose thundering from the citadel ; 
And soon the trampling charger s din 
Told of some mustering pomp within. 
But all without was still and drear, 
The long streets wore the hue of fear, 
All desert, but where some quick eye 
Peer'd from the curtain' d gallery. 
Or crouching slow from roof to roof, 
The Servian glanced, then shrank aloof, 
Eager, yet dreading to look on 
The business to be that day done. 
The din grew louder, crowding feet 
Seem' d rushing to the central street ; 
'Twas fill'd ; the city's idle brood 
Scatter'd before, few, haggard, rude : 
Then come the Spahis 6 bounding on 
With kettle-drum and gonfalon?; 
And ever at the cymbal's clash, 
Upshook their spears the sudden flash, 
Till, like a shatter' d, sable sail, 
Wheel'd o'er their rear the black horse-tail, 
All hurrying on, like men who yield, 
Or men who seek, some final field. 

They lead a captive ; the Pashawg 
From his large eye draws back with awe ; 
All tongues are silent in the group, 
Who round that fearful stranger troop : 
He still has homage, though his hands 
Are straining in a felon's bands. 
No Moslem 9 he ; his brow is bare, 
Save one wild tress of raven hair, 
Like a black serpent deeply bound, 
Where once sat Servia's golden round. 

6 Spahis, Turkish horsemen. 8 Pashaw, Turkish governor. 

7 gonfalon, a banner. 1) Moslem, a Mohammedan. 

T 2 



292 CROLY. 

His neck bends low, and many a stain 
Of blood shows how it feels the chain ; 
A peasant's robe is o'er him flung, 
A swordless sheath beside him hung ; 
He sits a charger, but a slave 
Now holds the bridle of the brave. 

And now they line the palace-square, 

A splendid sight, as noon's full glare 

Pours on their proud caparison, 

Arms rough with gold and dazzling stone, 

Horse-nets, and shawls of Indian dye, 

O'er brows of savage majesty. 

But where's the fetter'd rider now ? 

A flag above, a block below, 

An Ethiop 10 headsman low' ring near, 

Show where must close his stern career. 

A thousand eyes are fix'd to mark 

The fading of his eye's deep spark, 

The quicken' d heaving of his breast ; 

But all within it is at rest : 

There is no quivering nerve ; his brow 

Scarce bent upon the crowd below, 

He stands in settled, stately gloom, 

A warrior's statue on his tomb. 

***** 

A trumpet rang ;— the turban'd line 
Clash'd up their spears, the headsman's sign. 
Then, like the iron in the forge, 
Blazed thy dark visage, Czerni George ! 
He knew that trumpet's Turkish wail, 
His guide through many a forest vale, 
When, scattering like the hunted deer, 
The Moslem felt his early spear ; 

10 Ethiop, a dark-complexioned African. 






CROLY. 293 

He heard it when the Servian targe 
Broke down the Delhi's 11 desperate charge, 
And o'er the flight his scimitar 
Was like the flashing of a star : 
That day, his courser to the knee 
Was bathed in blood, and Servia free ! 
That day, before he sheathed his blade, 
He stood a sovereign in Belgrade ; 
The field, the throne, were on that eye, 
Which wander' d now so wild and high. 

The hour had waned ; the sunbeam fell 
Full on the palace pinnacle, 
The golden crescent 12 on its spire 
Beam'd o'er a cross ! his eye shot fire ; 
That cross was o'er the crescent set, 
The day he won the coronet. 
He dash'd away a tear of pride, 
His hand was darted to his side, 
No sword was there : — a bitter smile 
Told the stern spirit's final thrill ; 
Yet all not agony ; afar, 
Mark'd he no cloud of northern war ? 
S well'd on his prophet ear no clang 
Of tribes that to their saddles sprang ? 
No Russian cannon's heavy hail 
In vengeance smiting the Serail 13 ? 
The whole was but a moment's trance, 
That 'scaped the turban'd rabble's glance ; 
A sigh, a stride, a stamp the whole, 
Time measures not the tides of soul. 
He was absorb'd in dreams, nor saw 
The hurried glare of the Pashaw ; 
Nor saw the headsman's backward leap, 
To give his axe the wider sweep. 

11 Delhi's Turkish leader. 12 crescent; the crescent is the Moham- 

13 Serail,Jhe Sultan's palace. medan ensign. 



294 CROLY. 

Down came the blow ; — the self-same smile 
Was lingering on the dead lip still, 
When 'mid the train the pikeman bore 
The bloody head of the Pandour. 

The night was wild, the atabal 14 
Scarce echoed on the rampart-wall ; 
Scarce heard the shrinking centinel, 
The night-horn in that tempest's yell. 
But forms, as shot the lightning's glare, 
Stole silent through that palace-square, 
And thick and dim a weeping group 
Seem'd o'er its central spot to stoop. 
The storm a moment paused, the moon 
Broad from a hurrying cloud-rift shone ; 
It shone upon a headless trunk, 
Raised in their arms ; the moonbeam sunk, 
And all was dimness ; but the beat 
Came sudden as of parting feet, 
And sweet and solemn voices pined 
In the low lapses of the wind. 
'Twas like the hymn, when soldiers bear 
A soldier to his sepulchre. 

***** 
The lightning threw a shaft below, 
The stately square was desert now. 
Yet far, as far as eye could strain, 
Was seen the remnant of a train ; 
A wavering shadow of a crowd, 
That round some noble burden bow'd. 
"Twas gone, and all was night once more, 
Wild rain, and whirlwind's doubled roar. 

14 atabal, a Turkish instrument of music- 



CROLY. 295 

THE ALHAMBRA. 



Where are thy pomps, Alhambra l , earthly sun, 

That had no rival, and no second ? — gone ! 

Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd, 

Like the great day-star to the ocean dim, 

The billows of the ages o'er thee swim, 

Gloomy and fathomless ; thy tale is told. 

Where is thy horn of battle ? that but blown 

Brought every chief of Afric from his throne ; 

Brought every spear of Afric from the wall ; 

Brought every charger barded from the stall, 

Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore ; 

Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour 

The living deluge on the fields of Spain. 

Queen of earth's loveliness, there was a stain 

Upon thy brow — the stain of guilt and gore ; 

Thy course was bright, bold, treach'rous, — and 'tis o'er. 

The spear and diadem are from thee gone ; 

Silence is now sole monarch, of thy throne ! 



-^ 



•-■- 



JACOB'S DREAM. 



The sun was sinking on the mountain zone 
That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine ! 
And lovely from the desert rose the moon, 
Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line, 
Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine. 
Up Padan-aram's height abrupt and bare 
A pilgrim toil'd, and oft on day's decline 
Look'd pale, then paused for eve's delicious air, 
The summit gain'd, he knelt, and breathed his evening prayer. 

1 Alhambra, a celebrated palace, erected by the Moors while in possession 
of Spain. 



296 CROLY. 

• 

He spread his cloak and slumber' d — darkness fell 
Upon the twilight hills ; a sudden sound 
Of silver trumpets o'er him seem'd to swell ; 
Clouds heavy with the tempest gather' d round ; 
Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound ; 
Still deeper roll'd the darkness from on high, 
Gigantic volume upon volume wound, 
Above, a pillar shooting to the sky, 
Below, a mighty sea, that spread incessantly. 

Voices are heard — a choir of golden strings, 
Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose ; 
Then chariot- wheels — the nearer rush of wings ; 
Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows, 
It thunders — the resplendent gates unclose ; 
Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er height, 
Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crown'd brows, 
Millions on millions, brighter and more bright, 
Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled light. 

But, two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand, 
Like cherub-kings, with lifted, mighty plume, 
Fix'd, sun-bright eyes, and looks of high command: 
They tell the Patriarch of his glorious doom ; 
Father of countless myriads that shall come, 
Sweeping the land like billows of the sea, 
Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom, 
Till He is given whom angels long to see, 
And Israel's splendid line is crown'd with Deity. 



297 



HENRY HART MILMAN, 

A Clergyman of the Established Church, and late Professor of Poetry 
in the university of Oxford, is, like Campbell, a classical poet, and has 
formed his style on the models of the great poets of antiquity. He does 
not possess the fire and energy of some of his contemporaries ; but he is 
also free from their extravagances : his descriptions are full of truth and 
beauty, and though they rarely stimulate the passions, they have an 
irresistible claim upon the affections. 



HYMN OF THE CAPTIVE JEWS. 

{From Belshazzar.] 

God of the thunder ! from whose cloudy seat 

The fiery winds of desolation flow : 
Father of vengeance ! that with purple feet, 

Like a full wine-press, tread' st the world below ; 
The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, 
Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey, 
Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way, 

Till Thou the guilty land hast seal'd for woe. 

God of the rainbow ! at whose gracious sign 

The billows of the proud their rage suppress ; 
Father of mercies ! at one word of thine 

An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness ! 
And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, 
And timbrels ring in maidens 1 glancing hands, 
And marble cities crown the laughing lands, 
And pillar' d temples rise Thy name to bless. 

O'er Judah's land Thy thunders broke, O Lord ! 

The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate, 
Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian sword, 

Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; j 



298 MILMAN. 

And heaps her ivory palaces became, 
Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, 
Her temple sank amid the smouldering flame, 
For Thou didst ride the tempest-cloud of fate. 

O'er Judah's land Thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam, 

And the sad city lift her crownless head ; 
And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam, 

Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead. 
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, 
On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers, 
To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers, 
And angel-feet the glittering Sion tread. 

Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand, 

And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves ; 
With fetter'd steps we left our pleasant land, 

Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. 
The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep, 
And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, 
'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep, 
Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves. 

The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy ; 

Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead Thy children home ; 
He that went forth a tender yearling boy, 

Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. 
And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear, 
And Hermon's bees their honied stores prepare ; 
And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, 

Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed 
th' irradiate dome. 






MILMAN. 299 

THE SUMMONS OF THE DESTROYING ANGEL TO THE 
CITY OF BABYLON. 

The hour is come ! the hour is come ! With voice 

Heard in thy inmost soul, I summon thee, 

Cyrus 1 , the Lord's anointed ! And thou river, 

That now'st exulting in thy proud approach 

To Babylon, beneath whose shadowy walls, 

And brazen gates, and gilded palaces, 

And groves, that gleam with marble obelisks,' 

Thy azure bosom shall repose, with lights 

Fretted and chequer d like the starry heavens : 

I do arrest thee in thy stately course, 

By Him that pour'd thee from thine ancient fountain, 

And sent thee forth, even at the birth of time, 

One of His holy streams, to lave the mounts 

Of Paradise. Thou hear'st me : thou dost check 

Abrupt thy waters, as the Arab chief 

His headlong squadrons. "Where the unobserved, 

Yet toiling Persian breaks the ruining mound, 

I see thee gather thy tumultuous strength ; 

And, through the deep and roaring Naharmalcha, 

Roll on, as proudly conscious of fulfilling 

The omnipotent command ! While, far away, 

The lake, that slept but now so calm, nor moved, 

Save by the rippling moonshine, heaves on high 

Its foaming surface, like a whirlpool gulf, 

And boils and whitens with the unwonted tide. 

But, silent as thy billows used to flow, 
And terrible, the hosts of Elam 2 move, 
Winding their darksome way profound, where man 
Ne'er trod, nor light e'er shone, nor air from heav'n 
Breathed. Oh ! ye secret and unfathom'd depths, 
How are ye now a smooth and royal way 

1 Cyrus, the king of Persia, by whom Babylon was stormed. 
2 Elam, the scriptural name of Persia. 



300 MILMAN. 

For tli' army of God's vengeance ! Fellow-slaves, 

And ministers of the Eternal purpose, 

Not guided by the treacherous, injured sons 

Of Babylon, but by my mightier arm, 

Ye come, and spread your banners, and display 

Your glittering arms as ye advance, all white 

Beneath th' admiring moon. Come on ! the gates 

Are open — not for banqueters in blood 

Like you ! T see on either side o'erflow 

The living deluge of arm'd men, and cry 

Begin, begin ! with fire and sword begin 

The work of wrath. Upon my shadowy wings 

I pause and float a little while, to see 

Mine human instruments fulfil my task 

Of final ruin. Then I mount, I fly, 

And sing my proud song, as I ride the clouds, 

That stars may hear, and all the hosts of worlds, 

That live along the interminable space, 

Take up Jehovah's everlasting triumph ! 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 

Hymn. 

Even thus, amid thy pride and luxury, 

O Earth ! shall that last coming burst on thee, 

That secret coming of the Son of Man. 
When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, 
Irradiate with his bright advancing sign : 

When that Great Husbandman shall wave his fan, 
Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp away : 
Still to the noontide of that nightless day, 

Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. 
Along the busy mart and crowded street, 
The buyer and the seller still shall meet, 

And marriage-feasts begin their jocund strain : 



MILMAN. 301 

Still to the pouring out the cup of woe ; 

Till Earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro, 

And mountains molten by His burning feet, 

And heaven His presence own, all red with furnace-heat. 

The hundred-gated cities then, 

The towers and temples, named of men 

Eternal, and the thrones of kings ; 
The gilded summer palaces, 
The courtly bowers of love and ease, 

Where still the bird of pleasure sings ; 
Ask ye the destiny of them ? 
Go gaze on fallen Jerusalem ! 
Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, 

'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurl'd, 
The skies are shrivell'd like a burning scroll, 

And the vast common doom ensepulchres the world, 
Oh ! who shall then survive ? 
Oh ! who shall stand and live ? 
"When all that hath been is no more : 
When for the round earth hung in air, 
With all its constellations fair 
In the sky's azure canopy ; 
When for the breathing earth, and sparkling sea, 

Is but a fiery deluge without shore, 
Heaving along the abyss profound and dark, 
A fiery deluge, and without an ark. 

Lord of all power, when Thou art there alone, 
On Thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne, 
That in its high meridian noon 
Needs not the perish' d sun nor moon : 
When Thou art there in Thy presiding state, 
Wide-sceptred monarch o'er the realm of doom : 
When from the sea-depths, from earth's darkest womb, 
The dead of all the ages round Thee wait ; 



302 MILMAN. 

And when the tribes of wickedness are strewn, 
Like forest-leaves, in the autumn of Thine ire : 

Faithful and true ! Thou still wilt save Thine own ! 
The Saints shall dwell within th' unharming fire, 

Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm, 
Even safe as we, by this still fountain s side, 
So shall the Church, Thy bright and mystic bride, 

Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm. 
Yes, 'mid yon angry and destroying signs, 
O'er us the rainbow of Thy mercy shines, 

. We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam, 

Almighty to avenge, Almightiest to redeem ! 



JOHN WILSON, 



Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, has 
not attained the popularity which his poetic merits deserve. His powers 
of mind are great and varied, his heart manifestly " o'erflowing with 
the milk of human kindness," his style perfectly original, teeming with 
the most delightful fancies, and abounding in noble appeals to the best 
feelings of the human heart. 



THE SEA BY MOONLIGHT. 
[From The Isle of Palms.] 

It is the midnight hour : — the beauteous sea, 
Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses, 

While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, 
Far down within the watery sky reposes. 

As if the ocean s heart were stirr'd 

With inward life, a sound is heard, 
Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep ; 

'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, 

That lies like a garment floating fair 
Above the happy deep. 



WILSON. 303 

The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd 

By evening freshness from the land, 
For the land it is far away ; 

But God hath will'd that the sky-born breeze, 

In the centre of the loneliest seas, 
Should ever sport and play. 
The mighty moon she sits above, 
Encircled with a zone of love, 
A zone of dim and tender light, 
That makes her wakeful eye more bright : 
She seems to shine with a sunny ray, 
And the night looks like a mellow' d day ! 
The gracious mistress of the main 
Hath now an undisturbed reign, 
And from her silent throne looks down, 
As upon children of her own, 
On the waves that lend their gentle breast 
In gladness, for her couch of rest ! 
My spirit sleeps amid the calm 

The sleep of a new delight ; 
And hopes that she ne'er may wake again, 
But for ever hang o'er the lovely main, 

And adore the lovely night. 
Scarce conscious of an earthly frame, 
She glides away like a lambent flame, 

And in her bliss she sings ; 
Now touching softly the ocean's breast, 
Now 'mid the stars she lies at rest, 

As if she sail'd on wings ! 
Now bold as the brightest star that glows 
More brightly since at first it rose, 
Looks down on the far-off flood, 
And there all breathless and alone, 
As the sky where she soars were a world of her own, 
She mocketh that gentle mighty one, 
As he lies in his quiet mood. 



304 WILSON. 

" Art thou," she breathes, " the tyrant grim 

That scoffs at human prayers, 
Answering with prouder roar the while, 
As it rises from some lonely isle ? 

Through groans raised wild, th& hopeless hymn 
Of shipwreck' d mariners ? 
Oh ! thou art harmless as a child, 
Weary with joy, and reconciled 

For sleep to change its play ; 
And now that night hath stay*d thy race, 
Smiles wander o'er thy placid face, 

As if thy dreams were gay." 



THE SHIP. 



And lo ! upon the murmuring waves 

A glorious shape appearing ! 
A broad-wing'd vessel, through the shower 

Of glimmering lustre steering ! 
As if the beauteous ship enjoy' d 

The beauty of the sea, 
She lifteth up her stately head, 

And saileth joyfully. 
A lovely path before her lies, 

A lovely path behind ; 
She sails amid the loveliness, 

Like a thing with heart and mind. 
Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair, 

Slowly she beareth on ; 
A glorious phantom of the deep, 

Risen up to meet the moon. 
The moon bids her tenderest radiance fall 

On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings, 
And the quiet voice of the rocking sea, 

To cheer the gliding vision sings. 



WILSON. 305 

Oh ! ne'er did sky and water blend 

In such a holy sleep, 
Or bathe in brighter quietude 

A roaraer of the deep. 
So far the peaceful soul of heaven 

Hath settled on the sea ; 
It seems as if this weight of calm 

Were from eternity. 
O, world of waters ! the steadfast earth 

Ne'er lay entranced like thee ! 

Is she a vision wild and bright, 
That sails amid the still moon-light, 

At the dreaming soul's command ? 
A vessel borne by magic gales, 
All rigg'd with gossamery sails, 

And bound for Fairy-land ? 
Ah, no ! an earthly freight she bears, 
Of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears ; 
And lonely as she seems to be, 
Thus left by herself on the moonlight sea, 

In loneliness that rolls, 
She hath a constant company, 
In sleep, or waking revelry, 

Five hundred human souls ! 
Since first she sail'd from fair England, 

Three moons her path have cheer'd ; 
And another lights her lovelier lamp, 

Since the Cape hath disappear'd. 
For an Indian isle she shapes her way : 
With constant mind, both night and day, 
She seems to hold her home in view, 
And sails as if the path she knew ; 
So calm and stately in her motion, 
Across th' unfathom'd trackless ocean. 1 



306 WILSON. 

THE SHIPWRECK. 

But list ! a low and moaning sound 

At distance heard, like a spirit's song, 

And now it reigns above, around, 

As if it call'd the ship along. 

The moon is sunk ; and a clouded gray 

Declares that her course is run, 

And like a god who brings the day, 

Up mounts the glorious sun. 

Soon as his light has warm'd the seas, 

From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze ; 

And that is the spirit whose well-known song 

Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. 

No fears hath she ; her giant form 

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, 

Majestically calm would go 

'Mid the deep darkness white as snow ! 

But gently now the small waves glide 

Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side. 

So stately her bearing, so proud her array, 

The main she will traverse for ever and aye. 

Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast ; 

— Hush ! hush ! thou vain dreamer ! this hour is her las 

Five hundred souls in one instant of dread 

Are hurried o'er the deck ; 
And fast the miserable ship 

Becomes a lifeless wreck. 
Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, 

Her planks are torn asunder, 
And down come her masts with a reeling shock, 

And a hideous crash, like thunder. 
Her sails are draggled in the brine, 

That gladden'd late the skies, 
And her pendant, that kiss'd the fair moonshine, 

Down many a fathom lies. 



WILSON. 307 



Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues 

Gleam'd softly from below, 
And flung a warm and sunny flush 

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, 
To the coral rocks are hurrying down, 
To sleep amid colours as bright as their own. 

Oh ! many a dream was in the ship 

An hour before her death ; 
And sights of home with sighs disturb'd 

The sleeper's long-drawn breath. 
Instead of the murmur of the sea, 
The sailor heard the humming tree 

Alive through all its leaves, 
The hum of the spreading sycamore 
That grows before his cottage-door, 

And the swallow's song in the eaves. 
His arms enclosed a blooming boy, 
Who listen'd with tears of sorrow and joy 

To the dangers his father had pass'd ; 
And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled, 
As she look'd on the father of her child 

Return' d to her heart at last. 
— He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, 
And the rush of waters is in his soul. 
Astounded, the reeling deck he paces, 
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces ; — 

The whole ship's crew are there ! 
Wailings around and overhead, 
Brave spirits stupefied or dead, 

And madness and despair. 

****** 

Now is the ocean's bosom bare, 
Unbroken as the floating air ; 
The ship hath melted quite away, 
Like a struggling dream at break of day. 



308 WILSON. 

No image meets my wandering eye, 

But the new-risen sun, and the sunny sky. 

Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull 

Bedims the waves so beautiful : 

While a low and melancholy moan 

Mourns for the glory that hath flown. 



REGINALD HEBER, 

Late Bishop of Calcutta, was born in Cheshire, A. D. 1783. He was 
educated at Oxford, where he first became distinguished as a poet, by 
his beautiful prize poem of Palestine. He obtained a fellowship at Ox- 
ford, which he resigned when presented to the family-living of Hodnet. 
Rarely was a pastor more beloved by his parishioners ; never was there 
one who better merited their affections. His departure from Hodnet, 
when promoted to the bishopric of Calcutta, was marked by a sincerity 
of sorrow, that.reflects lustre both on Heber and his flock. The labours 
of his episcopal station proved too heavy for Heber's weak constitution : 
he died suddenly at Tritchinopoli, A. D. 1826. 

Heber is truly a Christian poet. A pure spirit of affectionate piety 
pervades all his verses, and gives them a charm more delightful than any 
merely poetic powers could bestow. 



PALESTINE. 

Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn, 
Mourn, widow' d queen ! forgotten Sion, mourn ! 
Is this thy place, sad city, this thy throne, 
Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone ? 
While suns unbless'd their angry lustre fling, 
And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring ? 
Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy view'd ? 
Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued ? 
No martial myriads muster in thy gate ; 
No suppliant nations in thy temple wait ; 



HEBER. 309 

No prophet-bards, the glittering courts among, 
Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song : 
But lawless Force, and meagre Want are there, 
And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear, 
While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid, 
Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade. 



THE DRUSESU 



Fierce, hardy, proud, in conscious freedom bold, 
Those stormy seats the warrior Druses hold ; 
From Norman blood their lofty line they trace, 
Their lion-courage proves their generous race. 
They, only they, while all around them kneel 
In sullen homage to the Thracian 2 steel, 
Teach their pale despot's waning moon to fear 
The patriot terrors of the mountain-spear. 
Yes, valorous chiefs, while yet your sabres shine, 
The native guard of feeble Palestine, 
O, ever thus, by no vain boast dismay'd, 
Defend the birth-right of the cedar-shade ! 
What though no more for you th' obedient gale 
Swells the white bosom of the Tyrian 3 sail ; 
Though now no more your glitt'ring marts unfold 
Sidonian 3 dyes and Lusitanian 4 gold ; 
Though not for you the pale and sickly slave 
Forgets the light in Ophir's 5 wealthy cave ; 

1 The Druses. This extraordinary race, who boast themselves to be descended 

from the early crusaders, inhabit the mountains of Palestine, and are re- 
markable for their untameable spiiit, feudal customs, and strong attach- 
ment to Europeans. 

2 Thracian. Constantinople, the capital of the Turkish empire, is in ancient 

Thrace. 

3 Tyrian — Sidonian. Tyre and Sidon were the great marts of the ancient com- 

merce of Asia. 

4 Lusitanian, belonging to Portugal and Western Spain. Gold was anciently 

found in Spain, and was brought from thence to Asia by the Phoenician 
merchants. 

5 Ophir, a part of south-western Africa, with which the Jewish king, Solomon, 

opened a commercial intercourse. 



10 HEBER. 

Yet yours the lot, in proud contentment blest, 
Where cheerful labour leads to tranquil rest. 
No robber-rage the ripening harvest knows ; 
And unrestrain'd the generous vintage flows : 
Nor less your sons to manliest deeds aspire, 
And Asia's mountains glow with Spartan fire. 

So when, deep sinking in the rosy main, 
The western sun forsakes the Syrian plain, 
His watery rays refracted lustre shed, 
And pour their latest light on Carmel's head. 

Yet shines your praise, amid surrounding gloom, 
As the lone lamp that trembles in the tomb : 
For few the souls that spurn a tyrant's chain, 
And small the bounds of freedom's scanty reign. 



THE CRUSADE. 



When coward Asia shook in trembling woe, 
And bent appall' d before the Bactrian 6 bow ; 
From the moist regions of the western star 
The wand' ring hermit waked the storm of war. 
Their limbs all iron, and their souls all flame, 
A countless host, the red-cross warriors came : 
E'en hoary priests the sacred combat wage, 
And clothe in steel the palsied arm of age ; 
While beardless youths and tender maids assume 
The weighty morion and the glancing plume. 
In sportive pride the warrior-damsels wield 
The pond'rous falchion, and the sunlike shield, 
And start to see their armour's iron gleam 
Dance with blue lustre in Tabaria's stream. 



Bactrian. The Seljukian Turks, who subdued Palestine, came from that part 
of Asia, anciently called Bactria, 



HEBER. 311 

The blood-red banner floating o'er their van, 
All madly blithe the mingled myriads ran : 
Impatient Death beheld his destined food, 
And hov'ring vultures snuff 'd the scent of blood. 

Not such the numbers, nor the host so dread, 
By Northern Brenn7 or Scythian TimourS led; 
Nor such the heart-inspiring zeal that bore 
United Greece to Phrygia's 9 reedy shore ! 
There Gaul's proud knights with boastful mien advance, 
Form the long line, and shake the cornel lance ; 
Here, link'd with Thrace, in close battalion stand 
Ausonia's 10 sons, a soft, inglorious band; 
There the stern Norman joins the Austrian train, 
And the dark tribes of late-reviving Spain ; 
Here in black files, advancing firm and slow, 
Victorious Albion twangs the deadly bow, — 
Albion, — still prompt the captive's wrong to aid, 
And wield in Freedom's cause the freeman's generous 
blade ! 



HYMN. 

Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity. 



Lo, the lilies of the field, 

How their leaves instruction yield ! 

Hark to Nature's lesson, given 

By the blessed birds of heaven ! 

Every bush and tufted tree 

Warbles sweet philosophy : 

" Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow : 

God provideth for the morrow ! 

*] Brenn. Brennus, the leader of the Gauls, that burned Rome. 

8 Timour. The leader of the Tartar hordes that devastated Asia. 

9 Phrygia, a province of Asia Minor, in which Troy was situated. 

10 Ausonia, Italy. 



312 HEBER. 



" Say, with richer crimson glows 
The kingly mantle than the rose ? 
Say, have kings more wholesome fare 
Than we, poor citizens of air ? 
Barns nor hoarded grain have we, 
Yet we carol merrily. 
Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow : 
God provideth for the morrow ! 

" One there lives, whose guardian eye 
Guides our humble destiny ; 
One there lives, who, Lord of all, 
Keeps our feathers lest they fall : 
Pass we blithely then the time, 
Fearless of the snare and lime, 
Free from doubt and faithless sorrow : 
God provideth for the morrow ! " 



FELICIA HEMANS 

Is the poetess of the pure spirit of chivalry, mingled with all the delicate 
tenderness of a gentle and cultivated mind, and ennobled by the bene- 
volent piety of sincere Christianity. She has too rarely concentrated her 
energies on a single topic, and has, consequently, produced no great 
poem worthy of her talents ; but many of her scattered odes are among 
the noblest and most affecting lyrics of our language. They resemble in 
their effect some of those wondrous snatches of music that, when heard, 
imprint themselves on the memory at once and for ever. 



THE TRUMPET. 



The trumpet's voice hath roused the land, 

Light up the beacon pyre ! 
A hundred hills have seen the brand, 

And waved the sign of fire. 



HEMANS. 313. 

A hundred banners on the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast — 
And, hark ! — was that the sound of seas ? 

— A king to war went past. 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasant by his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call, 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son 

Looks with a boding eye — 
They come not back, though all be won, 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en for the marriage-altar crown'd, 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear, 

By earthly clarion spread ! 
How will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead ? 



IVAN THE CZARl. 

He sat in silence on the ground, 
The old and haughty czar ; 

Lonely, though princes girt him round, 
And leaders of the war : 



1 Ivan, the Czar, or Emperor, of Russia, surnamed the Terrible, from his violent 
passions and cruel dispositions, when far advanced in years, besieged Novo- 
gorod. His Boyards, as the Russian nobles were called, seeing his imbe- 
cility, begged of him to intrust the command of the assault to his son. 
Nothing could appease his indignation at this proposal : his son prostrated 
himself at his feet ; but the unfortunate youth was repulsed with a blow of 
such violence, that he died in two days. The despairing father, struck with 
horror, became equally indifferent to war and power, and survived his mur- 
dered son only two or three months. 



314 HEMANS. 

He had cast his Jewell' d sabre, 
That many a field had won, 

To the earth beside his youthful dead, 
His fair and first-born son. 

With a robe of ermine for its bed, 

Was laid that form of clay, 
Where the light a stormy sunset shed, 

Through the rich tent made way ; 
And a sad and solemn beauty 

On the pallid face came down, 
Which the lord of nations mutely watch 1 d, 

In the dust, with his renown. 

Low tones at last of wo and fear 

From his full bosom broke ; 
A mournful thing it was to hear 

How then the proud man spoke ! 
The voice that through the combat 

Had shouted far and high, 
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, 

Burden' d with agony. 

" There is no crimson on thy cheek, 

And on thy lip no breath, 
I call thee, and thou dost not speak-— 

They tell me this is death ! 
And fearful things are whispering 

That I the deed have done : — 
, For the honour of thy father s name, 

Look up, look up, my son ! 

" Well might I know death's hue and mien, 

But on thine aspect, boy ! 
What till this moment have I seen, 

Save pride and tameless joy ? 
Swiftest thou wert to battle, 

And bravest there of all : 
How could I think a warrior's frame 

Thus like a flower should fall ? 



HEMANS. 315 

" I will not bear that still, cold look ! 

Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 
Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 

All, save this calm, from thee ! 
Lift brightly up, and proudly, 

Once more thy kindling eyes ! 
Hath my word lost its power on earth ? 

I say to thee, arise ! 

" Didst thou not know I loved thee well ? 

Thou didst not ! and art gone, 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell 

Where man must dwell alone. 
Come back, young fiery spirit ! 

If but one hour, to learn 
The secrets of the folded heart 

That seem'd to thee so stern. 

" Thou wert the first, the first, fair child, 

That in mine arms I press d ; 
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled 

Like summer on my breast ! 
I rear'd thee as an eagle, * 

To the chace thy steps I led, 
I bore thee on my battle-horse, 

I look upon thee dead ! 

" Lay down my warlike banners here, 

Never again to wave, 
And bury my red sword and spear, 

Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave ! 
And leave me ! — I have conquer d, — 

I have slain, — my work is done ! 
Whom have I slain ? — Ye answer not, — 
Thou too art mute, my son !" 

And thus his wild lament was pour d 
Through the dark resounding night, 



316 HEM AN S. 

And the battle knew no more his sword, 
Nor the foaming steed his might. 

He heard strange voices moaning 
In every wind that sigh'd ; 

From the searching stars of heaven he shrank, 
Humbly the conqueror died. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Chant of the Nuns. 

A sword is on the land ! 
He that bears down young tree and glorious flower, 
Death is gone forth, — he walks the wind in power ! 

Where is the warrior s hand ? 
Our steps are in the shadow of the grave ; 
Hear us, we perish ! Father, hear, and save ! 

If, in the days of song, 
The days of gladness, we have call'd on thee, 
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea, 

And joyous hearts were strong ; 
Now, that alike the feeble and the brave 
Must cry, " We perish !" — Father, hear, and save ! 

The days of song are fled ! 
The winds come loaded, wafting dirge-notes by, 
But they that linger soon unmourn'd must die ; 

The dead weep not the dead ! 
— Wilt thou forsake us 'midst the stormy wave ? 
We sink, we perish ! — Father , hear, and save ! 

Helmet and lance are dust ! 
Is not the strong man wither d from our eye ? 
The arm struck down that held our banners high ? 

Thine is our spirits' trust ! 
Look through the gathering shadows of the grave ! 
Do we not perish ?— Father, hear, and save ! 



HEMANS. 317 

CASABIANCAl. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 

Whence all but he had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck, 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames roll'd on — he would not go, 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He call'd aloud : — " Say, father, say 

If yet my task is done ?"* 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father !" once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! 
And," — but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames roll'd on. i 

— jf- " ,. • 
Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
And look'd from that lone post of death, 

In still yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My father ! must I stay ?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

1 Casablanca, a boy, about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient, 
remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile,) after the ship had taken 
fire, and all the guns had been abandoned. He perished in the explosion 
of the vessel when the flames had reached the powder. 



318 HEMANS. 

They wrapp'd the ship in splendour wild, 
They caught the flag on high, 

And stream' d above the gallant child, 
Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder-sound, — 
The boy, — oh ! where was he ? 

Ask of the winds, that far around 
With fragments strew' d the sea ! 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part, — 

But the noblest thing which perish' d there, 
Was that young and faithful heart ! 



THE CID'Sl FUNERAL PROCESSION. 

The Moor had beleaguer'd Valencia's 2 towers, 
And lances gleam'd up through her citron-bowers, 
And the tents of the desert had girt her plain, 
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain, 
For the Cid was gone to rest. 

There were men from wilds where the death-wind sweeps, 
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps, 
There were bows from sands where the ostrich runs, 
For the shrill horn of Afric had call'd her sons 
To the battles of the west. 

The midnight bell o'er the dim seas heard, 
Like the roar of waters, the air had stirr'd ; 
The stars were shining o'er tower and wave, 
And the camp lay hush'd as a wizard's cave, 
But the Christians woke that night. 

1 Cid. Don Roderigo Dios de Bivar, called " The Cid," which, 8 in Arabic, 
signifies Lord, was a celebrated Spanish hero. He won the city of Va- 
lencia from the Moors; it was besieged while he lay on his death-bed, and 
he directed that his corpse should be led out, as described in the poem, 
when the garrison should make a sally. 

§ Valencia, a city of Spain. 



HEMANS. 319 

They rear'd the Cid on his barbed 3 steed, 
Like a warrior mail'd for the hour of need, 
And they fix'd the sword in the cold right hand, 
Which had fought so well for his fathers' land, 

And the shield from his neck hung bright. 

There was arming heard in Valencia's halls, 
There was vigil kept on the rampart walls ; 
Stars had not faded, nor clouds turn'd red, 
When the knights had girded the noble dead, 
And the burial train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, 
Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirass'd bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands, 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

When the first went forth, it was midnight deep, 
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep : 
When the last through the city's gates had gone, 
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone, 
With a sun-burst from the sea. 

There were knights five hundred went arm'd before, 
And Bermudez 4 the Cid's green standard bore ; 
To its last fair field, with the break of morn, 
Was the glorious banner in silence borne, 
On the glad wind streaming free. 

And the Campeador 5 came stately then, 
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men ! 
The helmet was down o'er the face of the dead, 
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led, 
For he knew that the Cid was there. 



3 barbed, covered with defensive armour, as was usual with the horses of 

knights in the days of chivalry. 

4 Bsrmudez, the standard-bearer of the Cid. 5 Campeador, a title of the Cid, 



320 HEMANS. 

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword, 
And Ximena 6 following her noble lord ; 
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow, 
But there rose not a sound of war or woe, 
Not a whisper on the air. 

The halls in Valencia were still and lone, 
The churches were empty, the masses done ; 
There was not a voice through the wide streets far, 
Not a foot-fall heard in the Alcazar 7, 
So the burial train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, 
Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirass'd bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands, 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

But the deep hills peal'd with a cry ere long, 
When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng ! 
With a sudden flash of the lance and spear, 
And a charge of the war-steed in full career, 
It was Alvar Fanez 8 came ! \ 

He that was wrapt with no funeral shroud, 
Had pass'd before, like a threatening cloud ! 
And the storm rush'd down on the tented plain, 
And the Archer-Queen 9 with her bands lay slain, 
For the Cid upheld his fame. 

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar 10 , 
And the Libyan 11 kings who had join'd his war; 
And their hearts grew heavy and died away, 
And their hands could not wield an assagay 12 , 
For the dreadful things they saw ! 

6 Ximena, the Cid's wife. who accompanied King Bucar 

7 Alcazar the market-place. , n with a band of female archers. 

8 Alvar Fanez, one of the Cid's bra- 10 B ^^.^ iA ^ that had 

vest warriors. n Uhyan> Afr £ an / 

9 Archer-Queen, a Moorish princess, 12 assagay, a Moorish weapon. 



HEMANS. 321 

For it seem'd where Minaya 13 his onset made, 
There were seventy thousand knights array' d, 
All white as the snow on Nevada's 14 steep, 
And they came like the foam of a roaring deep ; 
'Twas a sight of fear and awe ! 

And the crested form of a warrior tall, 
With a sword of fire, went before them all ; 
With a sword of fire and a banner pale, 
And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail, 
He rode in the battle's van ! 

There was fear in the path of his dim white horse, 
There was death in the giant- warrior's course ! 
Where his banner stream'd with its ghostly light, 
Where his sword blazed out there was hurrying flight, 
For it seem'd not the sword of man ! 

The field and the river grew darkly red, 
As the kings and leaders of Afric fled ; 
There was work for the men of the Cid that day ! 
They were weary at eve, when they ceased to slay, 
As reapers whose task is done ! 

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled I 
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread ; 
But the sea had its share of the Paynim 15 slain* 
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain, 
So the Cid to his grave pass'd on ! 

13 Minaya, Alvar Fanez Minaya. 
14 Nevada, a lofty mountain in Spain. 15 Paynim, Pagan. 



322 



MISS LANDON 



First became distinguished by her poems published in the Literary 
Gazette, with the signature L. E. L. Her poems are more remarkable 
for force of language than originality of thought, or vigour of ima- 
gination. 



CRESCENTIUSl. 

I look'd upon his brow, — no sign 

Of guilt or fear was there ; 
He stood as proud by that death-shrine, 

As even o'er despair 
He had a power ; in his eye 
There was a quenchless energy, 

A spirit that could dare 
The deadliest form that Death could take, 
And dare it for the daring's sake. 

He stood, the fetters on his hand, — 

He rais'd them haughtily ; 
And had that grasp been on the brand, 

It could not wave on high 
With freer pride than it waved now; 
Around he look'd, with changeless brow, 

On many a torture nigh, — 
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, 
And, worst of all, his own red steel. 

I saw him once before : he rode 

Upon a coal-black steed, 
And tens of thousands throng'd the road, 

And bade their warrior speed. 
His helm, his breast-plate, were of gold, 
And graved with many a dent, that told 

Of many a soldier's deed ; 

1 Crescentius ; he was consul of Rome, A. D. 998, and made a vigorous attempt 
to deliver his native country from the tyranny of the Saxon emperors. He 
was induced to surrender by a promise of safety, and perfidiously executed. 



LANDON. 323 

The sun shone on his sparkling mail, 
And danced his snow- plume on the gale. 

But now he stood, chain' d and alone, 

The headsman by his side ; 
The plume, the helm, the charger gone y 

The sword, that had defied 
The mightiest, lay broken near, 
And yet no sign or sound of fear 

Came from that lip of pride ; 
And never king or conqueror s brow 
Wore higher look than his did now. 

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke 

With an uncover d eye ;" 
A wild shout from the numbers broke, 

Who throng d to see him die. 
It was a people's loud acclaim, 
The voice of anger and of shame,— 

A nation's funeral cry, — 
Rome's wail above her only son, 
Her patriot, and her latest one. 






BERNARD BARTON 



/ 



Is one of the Society of Friends, commonly called Quakers. His 
poems display great depth and tenderness of feeling, with much of the 
unostentatious piety that honourably distinguishes the unobtrusive sect 
to which he belongs. 



THE SOLITARY TOMB. 



Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me was stirr'd, 
Though a breath might have moved it so lightly ; 

Not a farewell note from a sweet singing bird, 
Bade adieu to the sun setting brightly. 



x 2 



324 BARTON. 

The sky was cloudless and calm, except 
In the West where the sun was descending ; 

And there the rich tints of the rainbow slept, 
As his beams with their beauty were blending. 

And the evening star, with its ray so clear, 

So tremulous, soft, and tender, 
Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its sphere 

Its dewy delightful splendour. 

And I stood, all alone, on that gentle hill, 
With a landscape so lovely before me ; 

And its spirit and tone, so serene and still, 
Seem'd silently gathering o'er me. 

Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood 
By its winding banks was sweeping ; 

And just at the foot of the hill where I stood, 
The dead in their damp graves were sleeping. 

How lonely and lovely their resting-place seem'd ! 

An enclosure which care could not enter : 
And how sweetly the gray lights of evening gleamd, 

On the solitary tomb in its centre ! 

When at morn, or at eve, I have wander d near, 

And in various lights have view'd it, 
With what differing forms, unto friendship dear, 

Has the magic of fancy endued it. 

Sometimes it has seem'd like a lonely sail, 

A white spot on the emerald billow ; 
Sometimes like a lamb, in a low grassy vale, 

Stretch' d in peace on its verdant pillow. 

But no image of gloom, or of care, or strife," 
Has it ever given birth to one minute ; 

For lamented in death, as beloved in life, 
Was he who now slumbers within it. 



BARTON. 325 

He was one who in youth on the stormy seas, 

Was a far and a fearless ranger ; 
Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze, 

Counted lightly of death or of danger. 

Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept 

All the freshness of gentle feeling ; 
Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever slept, 

More of softness and kindness revealing. 

And here, when the bustle of youth was past, 
He lived, and he loved, and he died too ; 

Oh ! why was affection, which death could outlast, 
A more lengthen' d enjoyment denied to? 

But here he slumbers ! and many there are 

Who love that lone tomb and revere it ; 
And one far off, who, like eve's dewy star, 

Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it. 



A POET'S NOBLEST THEME. 

The works of man may yield delight, 

And justly merit praise ; 
But though awhile they charm the sight, 

That charm in time decays : 
The sculptors, painters, poet's skill, — 
The art of mind's creative will, 

In various modes may teem ; 
But none of these, however rare 
Or exquisite, can truth declare 

A poet's noblest theme. 

The sun, uprising, may display 

His glory to the eye, 
And hold in majesty his way 

Across the vaulted sky ; 



326 BARTON. 

Then sink resplendent in the west, 
Where parting clouds his rays invest 

With beauty's softest beam ; 
Yet not unto the sun belong 
The charms which consecrate in song 

A poet's noblest theme. 

The moon, with yet more touching grace, 

The silent night may cheer, 
And shed o'er many a lonely place 

A charm to feeling dear ; 
The countless stars which grace her reign, 
A voiceless, but a lovely train, 

With brilliant light may gleam ; 
But she, nor they, though fair to see, 
And form'd to love, can ever be 

A poet's noblest theme. 

The winds, whose music to the ear 

With that of art may vie ; 
Now loud awakening awe and fear, 

Then soft as pity's sigh ; — 
The mighty ocean's ample breast, 
Calm or convulsed, in wrath or rest, 

A glorious sight may seem ; — 
But neither winds, nor boundless sea, 
Though beautiful or grand, can be 

A poet's noblest theme. 

The earth, our own dear native earth ! 

Has charms all hearts may own ; 
They cling around us from our birth, — 

More loved as longer known ; 
Her's are the lovely vales, the wild 
And pathless forests, mountains piled 

On high, and many a stream, 
Whose beauteous banks the heart may love. 
Yet none of these can truth approve 

A poet's noblest theme. 



BARTON. 327 

The virtues, which our fallen estate 

With foolish pride would claim, 
May, in themselves, be good and great, — 

To us an empty name. 
Truth, justice, mercy, patience, love, 
May seem with man on earth to rove, 

And yet may only seem ; 
To none of these, as mans, dare I 
The title of my verse apply — 

" A poet's noblest theme. 11 

To God alone, whose power divine 

Created all that live ; 
To God alone, can truth assign 

This proud prerogative : — 
But how shall man attempt His praise, 
Or dare to sing in mortal lays 

Omnipotence Supreme ! 
When seraph-choirs, in heaven above, 
Proclaim His glory and His love, 

Their noblest, sweetest theme ? 

Thanks be to God ! His grace has shown 

How sinful man on earth 
May join the songs which round his throne 

Give endless praises birth : 
He gave His Son for man to die ! 
He .sent His Spirit from on high 

To consummate the scheme : 
O be that consummation blest ! 
And let Redemption be confest 

A poet's noblest theme. 



328 



WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 

Like Barton, belong to the Society of Friends, and, like him, their 
poetry is marked by the most amiable peculiarities of the Quaker 

Society. 



THE CONQUEROR. 



There was a temple, a glorious one, 
Of the noble in death the dwelling ; 

Its gilded dome was bright in the sun, 
And its organ's tones were swelling. 

A varied light through its windows stray'd, 

All painted in antique story ; 
And over its marble pavement play'd, 

Like a gem diffusing glory. 

I saw the Lamb on its altar-stone, 

The banner of love displaying ; 
And heard, in a deep unearthly tone, 

Who their hallow'd rites were paying. 

There was a city, the home of the free, 
Where wisdom and wit were abiding ; 

The boast of the land, the queen of the sea. 
Where her fleets were gallantly riding. 

The great and the good, the fair and the brave, 

All, all in that city abounded ; 
She never had stoop' d to bow as the slave, 

Nor by tyrants had been confounded. 

Oh, she was a city to liberty dear ! 

And never had dream' d of danger ; 
Her wealth was the boast of the far and near, 

And none to her name was a stranger. 



THE HOWITTS. 329 

There was a home like one above, 

A home of many the dearest ; 
Where the mother clasp' d, in tenderest love, 

All that to her heart was nearest. 

The sire, and the son, and the daughter fair, 
And the youth to whom she was plighted, 

In a bower of bliss and of beauty, where 
A seraph had been delighted. 

They were bound in the dearest of earthly ties ; 

They loved, and in love requited, 
Had learn d the bliss of their lot to prize, 

Ere the bud of hope was blighted. 

There rose on the earth a mighty one, 

On a blood-dyed charger mounted ; 
His arms were bright in the morning sun, 

And fame his deeds recounted. 

With a great and valorous host he came, 

In whirlwind fury speeding ; 
With him rode Might, but Want and Flame, 

And Ruin and Death succeeding. 

And he hath polluted that altar s fane, 

Like the demon of wrath descending ; 
And they who worshipp'd shall never again 

In its marble courts be bending. 

For low they are sleeping the sleep of the slain ; 

They are laid in death's long slumbers ; 
And that altar's stone hath a crimson stain, 

From the best heart's-blood of numbers. 

And none now regard those windows high, 

Nor gaze on that antique story ; 
And its beautiful, chequering lustres lie - ] 

On a pavement soil'd and gory. 



330 THE HOWITTS. 

That mighty one hath forged a chain 
For that city so wise and glorious ; 

Her children of freedom no more remain ; 
Her wealth hath lured the victorious. 

And her boasted name is a boast no more ; 

And past is her pride of bravery ; 
And they who never were bound before, 

Are wearing the bonds of slavery. 

Her walls, and her domes, and her princely towers, 

And her fleet's imperial token, 
Are seen no more ; and, in distant bowers, 

The hearts of the great are broken. 

He has parted hence, and rapine and fire 
Have levell'dthat love-hallow' d dwelling ; 

And she, who erst had her heart's desire, 
With anguish the gale is swelling. 

And she, whose tresses of raven hair 

That nuptial morn were braided, 
Is pale with the frenzy of wild despair, 

Like a drooping lily faded. 

And those they loved, in the field of fight, 
Are cold in the pale moon's beaming, 

Where the raven rests from its weary flight, 
In dolorous dirges screaming. 



TELLE EST LA VIE." 



Seest thou yon bark ? It left our bay 
This morn on its adventurous way, 

All glad and gaily bright ; 
And many a gale its impulse gave, 
And many a gently-heaving wave 

Nigh bore it out of sight. 



THE HOWITTS. 33 

But soon that glorious course was lost, 

And treach'rous was the deep ; 
Ne'er thought they there was peril most 

"When tempests seem'd asleep. 

Telle est la vie ! 

That flower, that fairest flower, that grew, 
Aye cherish' d by the evening dew, 

And cheer'd by opening day : 
That flower which I had spared to cull, 
Because it was so beautiful, 

And shone so fresh and gay ; 
Had all unseen a deathly shoot, 

The germ of future sorrow ; 
And there was canker at its root, 

That nipp'd it ere the morrow. 

Telle est la vie ! 

I've watch' d'from yonder mountain's height 
The waxing and the waning light, 

The world far, far below ; 
I've heard the thunder long and loud ; 
I've seen the sunshine and the cloud, 

The tempest and the bow : 
Now, 'twas all sunshine glad and bright, 

And now the storm was raging ; 
Methought I read in that frail light 

And storm a warfare waging. 

Telle est la vie ! 



332 



THOMAS DALE, 



A Clergyman of the Established Church, has written but little ; that 
little, however, displays great tenderness of feeling, and sweetness of 
expression. • 



THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 



She saw him — Death's untimely prey, 

Struck with the blight of slow decline ; 
She watch' d his vigour waste away, 
His ardent spirit droop and pine. 
The rose upon his cheek, she knew, 
Bloom'd not with health's transparent hue ; 
It was a softer, fainter glow — 

A tint of fading loveliness, 
Which told, a canker lurk'd below : — 
So gleams o'er fields of wintry snow 

The pale moon, cold and comfortless. 
And oft she mark'd within his eye 
A wild, unwonted brilliancy — 
The lovely, but delusive ray 
Of nature, sinking to decay ; 
And oft she caught his stifled moan — 
It breathed a deep and hollow tone, 
Which told of death, ere life was gone. 
At times, when fever's burning flush 
Heighten'd consumption's hectic blush, , 
Fond hope — the latest still to leave, 
The first to flatter and deceive — 
Once more would brighten — but to fly 
When that false flush forsook his cheek, 
And spoke the pang he would not speak, 
And froze her fears to certainty. 



DALE. 333 

Nor deem it strange, that hope had power 
To soothe her soul in such an hour ; 
Where time has rent the lordly tower, 

And moss entwines the arches gray, 
Springs many a light and lovely flower 

That lends a lustre to decay. 
Thus, while existence wanes away, 

Consumption s fever' d cheek will "bloom, 
And beauty's brightest beams will play, 

In mournful glory, o'er the tomb. 
* * . * * * 

Whate'e^ his inward pangs might be, 

He told not — mute, and meekly still, 

He bow'd him to Jehovah's will, 
Nor murmur d at the stern decree ; 
For gently falls the chastening rod 
On him, whose hope is in his God : 
For her too, who beside his bed 

Still watch'd with fond, maternal care, \ 

For her he breath'd the pious prayer — 
The tear of love and pity shed. 
Oft would he bid her try to rest, 

And turn his pallid face away, 

Lest some unguarded look betray 
The pangs, nor sigh nor sound express'd. 
When torture rack'd his breast, 'twas known 
By sudden shivering starts alone ; 
Yet would her searching glance espy 
The look of stifled agony — 
For what can 'scape a mother's eye ? 
She deem'd in health she loved him more 
Than ever mother loved before ; 
But oh ! when thus, in cold decay, 
So placid, so resign'd he lay, 
And she beheld him waste away, 
And mark'd that gentle tenderness, 
Which watch'd and wept for her distress ; 



334 DALE. 

Then did her transient firmness melt 
To tears of love, more deeply felt ; 
And dearer still he grew — and dearer- 
E'en as the day of death drew nearer. 



THE FEMALE CONVICT TO HER INFANT. 

Oh, sleep not, my babe, for the morn of to-morrow 

Shall soothe me to slumber more tranquil than thine ; 
The dark grave shall shield me from shame and from sorrow, 

Though the deeds and the gloom of the guilty are mine. 
Not long shall the arm of affection enfold thee ; 

Not long shalt thou hang on thy mother's fond breast ; 
And who with the eye of delight shall behold thee, 

And watch thee, and guard thee, when I am at rest ?J 

And yet it doth grieve me to wake thee, my dearest, 

The pangs of thy desolate mother to see ; 
Thou wilt weep when the clank of my cold chain thou hearest, 

And none but the guilty should mourn over me. 
And yet I must wake thee — for while thou art weeping, 

To calm thee, I stifle my tears for awhile ; 
But thou smilest in thy dreams, while thus placidly sleeping, 

And oh ! how it wounds me to gaze on thy smile ! 

Alas ! my sweet babe, with what pride had I press'd thee 

To the bosom, that now throbs with terror and shame, 
If the pure tie of virtuous affection had bless'd thee, 

And hail'd thee the heir of thy father's high name ! 
But now — with remorse that avails not — I mourn thee, 

Forsaken and friendless, as soon thou wilt be, 
In a world, if it cannot betray, that will scorn thee — 

Avenging the guilt of thy mother on thee. 



DALE. 335 

And when the dark thought of my fate shall awaken 

The deep blush of shame on thy innocent cheek ; 
When by all, but the God of the Orphan, forsaken, 

A home and a father in vain thou shalt seek ; 
1 know that the base world will seek to deceive thee, 

With falsehood like that which thy mother beguiled ; 
Yet, lost and degraded — to whom can I leave thee ? 

O, God of the Fatherless ! pity my child ! 



FUNERAL DIRGE. 

{From The Widow of Nain.] 



Dear as thou wert, and justly dear, 

We will not weep for thee ; 
One thought shall check the starting tear, 

It is — that thou art free. 
And thus shall Faith's consoling power 

The tears of love restrain ; 
Oh ! who that saw thy parting hour, 

Could wish thee here again ? 

Triumphant in thy closing eye 

The hope of glory shone, 
Joy breathed in thine expiring sigh, 

To think the fight was won. 
Gently the passing spirit fled, 

Sustain d by grace divine ; 
Oh ! may such grace on me be shed, 

And make my end like thine ! 



336 



ROBERT POLLOK, 

Was born at a village in Ayrshire, A. D. 1799. The habits of reflection 
and study, which he acquired in very early youth, saved him from all 
dissipation and frivolity, but, unfortunately, strengthened his hereditary 
predisposition to consumptive disease. He was educated at the Univer- 
sity of Glasgow ; and, in the year 1827, was admitted a licentiate of the 
Scottish Secession Church. In the same year he published his great work, 
The Course of Time ; but soon after its appearance, the fatal symptoms 
of rapid decline began to be developed, and he died, September 15, 1827. 
The Course of Time possesses passages that rank among the very best 
poetry of our language, but, as a whole, it is unequal ; and some of the 
author's speculations on religious subjects are more rash and daring than 
the limited faculties of mortals should venture to indulge. 



THE COURSE OF TIME. 

The Miser. 
But there was one in folly further gone ; 
With eye awry, incurable, and wild, 
The laughing-stock of devils and of men, 
And by his guardian-angel quite given up — 
The miser, who with dust inanimate 
Held wedded intercourse. Ill-guided wretch I 
Thou might' st have seen him at the midnight hour, 
When good men slept, and in light-wing' d dreams 
Ascended up to God, — in wasteful hall, 
With vigilance and fasting worn to skin 
And hone, and wrapt in most debasing rags, — 
Thou might' st have seen him bending o'er his heaps, 
And holding strange communion with his gold ; 
And as his thievish fancy seem'd to hear . 
The night-man's foot approach, starting alarm'd, 
And in his old, decrepit, wither' d hand, 
That palsy shook, grasping the yellow earth 
To make it sure. Of all God made upright, 
And in their nostrils breathed a living soul, 
Most fallen, most prone, most earthy, most debased. 



POLLOK. 337 

Of all that sold Eternity for Time, 
None bargain d on so easy terms with death. 
Illustrious fool ! Nay, most inhuman wretch ! 
He sat among his bags, and, with a look 
Which Hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor 
Away unalms'd ; and midst abundance died — 
Sorest of evils ! — died of utter want ! 



TRUE LIBERTY. 

True Liberty was Christian, sanctified, 

Baptized, and found in Christian hearts alone. 

First-born of Virtue ! daughter of the skies ! 

Nursling of Truth divine ! sister of all 

The Graces, Meekness, Holiness, and Love : 

Giving to God, and man, and all below, 

That symptom show'd of sensible existence, 

Their due unask'd ; fear to whom fear was due ; 

To all, respect, benevolence, and love. 

Companion of Religion ; where she came, 

There Freedom came ; where dwelt, there Freedom dwelt ; 

Ruled where she ruled, expired where she expired. 

" He was the freeman whom the truth made free ;" 

Who first of all the bands of Satan broke ; 

»Who broke the bands of Sin ; and for his soul, 
In spite of fools, consulted seriously ; 
In spite of fashion, persevered in good ; 
In spite of wealth or poverty, upright ; 
Who did as Reason, not as Fancy bade ; 
Who heard Temptation sing, and yet turned not 

I A side ; saw Sin bedeck her fiowery bed, 
And yet would not go up ; felt at his heart 
The sword unsheathed, yet would not sell the truth ; 
Who, having power, had not the will to hurt ; 
Who blush' d alike to be, or have a slave ; 



!33 POLLOK. 

Who blush'd at nought but sin, feard nought but God 

Who, finally, in strong integrity 

Of soul, "midst want, or riches, or disgrace, 

Uplifted calmly sat, and heard the waves 

Of stormy folly breaking at his feet ; 

Now shrill with praise, now hoarse with foul reproach, 

And both despised sincerely ; seeking this 

Alone — the approbation of his God, 

Which still with conscience witness' d to his peace. 

This, this is freedom, such as angels use, 
And kindred to the liberty of God. 
First-born of Virtue ! daughter of the skies ! 
The man, the state in whom she ruled, was free ; 
All else were slaves of Satan, Sin, and Death. 



THE DEATH OF THE YOUNG MOTHER, 

It was an April day ; and blithely all 

The youth of nature leap'd beneath the sun, 

And promised glorious manhood ; and our hearts 

Were glad, and round them danced the lightsome blood, 

In healthy merriment — when tidings came, 

A child was born ; and tidings came again, 

That she who gave it birth was sick to death. 

So swift trod sorrow on the heels of joy ! 

We gatherd round her bed, and bent our knees 

In fervent supplication to the Throne 

Of Mercy ; and perfumed our prayers with sighs 

Sincere, and penitential tears, and looks 

Of self-abasement. But we sought to stay 

An angel on the earth ; a spirit ripe 

For heaven ; and Mercy, in her love, refused ; 

Most merciful, as oft, when seeming least ! 

Most gracious when she seem'd the most to frown ! 

The room I well remember ; and the bed 



POLLOK. 339 

On which she lay ; and all the faces too, 

That crowded dark and mournfully around. 

Her father there, and mother, bending stood, 

And down their aged cheeks fell many drops 

Of bitterness ; her husband, too, was there, 

And brothers ; and they wept — her sisters, too, 

Did weep and sorrow comfortless ; and I, 

Too, wept, though not to weeping given : and all 

Within the house was dolorous and sad. 

This I remember well, but better still 

The dying eye : — that eye alone was bright, 

And brighter grew, as nearer death approach' d ; 

As I have seen the gentle little flower 

Look fairest in the silver beam, which fell 

Reflected from the thunder-cloud that soon 

Came down, and o'er the desert scatter' d far 

And wide its loveliness. She made a sign 

To bring her babe ; — 'twas brought, and by her placed. 

She look'd upon its face that neither smiled 

Nor wept, nor knew who gazed upon 't, and laid 

Her hand upon its little breast, and sought 

For it with look that seem'd to penetrate 

The heavens — unutterable blessings — such 

As God to dying parents only granted, 

For infants left behind them in the world. 

" God keep my child," we heard her say, and heard 

No more : the Angel of the Covenant 

Was come, and faithful to his promise stood, 

Prepared to walk with her through death's dark vale. 

And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still, 

Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused 

With many tears, and closed without a cloud. 

They set as sets the morning-star, which goes 

Not down behind the darken'd west, nor hides 

Obscured among the tempests of the sky, 

But melts away into the light of heaven. 

Y 2 



340 



ALARIC A. WATTS, 



The Editor of the Souvenir, is a poet of great power and sweetness. He 
has, unfortunately, written too little to enable him to take the rank to 
which he is entitled by his talents. 



EVENING.— A SKETCH. 

'Tis evening : — on Abruzzo's 1 hill 
The summer sun is lingering still, 
As though unwilling to bereave 

The landscape of its softest beam ; — 
So fair, — one can but look and grieve, 

To think that, like a lovely dream, 
A few brief fleeting moments more 
Must see its reign of beauty o'er ! 

"Tis evening, — and a general hush 

Prevails, save when the mountain-spring 
Bursts from its rock, with fitful gush, 

And makes melodious murmuring ; — 
Or when from Como's height of fear, 

The echoes of its convent bell 
Come wafted on the far-off ear, 

With soft and diapason swell. 
But sounds so wildly sweet as they, 
Ah ! who would ever wish away ? v, 

Yet there are seasons when the soul, 

Rapt in some dear delicious dream, 
Heedless what skies may o'er it roll, 

What rays of beauty round it beam, 
Shuts up its inmost cell ; — lest aught, 

However wondrous, wild, or fair, 
Shine in, and interrupt the thought, 

The one deep thought that centres there ! 

Though with the passionate sense so shrined 
And canonized, the hues of grief 

1 Abruzzo, a mountainous district in the Neapolitan dominions. 



ALARIC WATTS. 341 



Perchance be darkly, closely twined, 
The lonely bosom spurns relief; 

And could the breathing scene impart 
A charm to make its sadness less, 

Would hate the balm that healed its smart, 
And curse the spell of loveliness 

That pierced its cloud of gloom, if so 

It stirred the stream of thought below. 






p 



.ETNA.— A SKETCH. 



It was a lovely night ; — the crescent moon, 

(A bark of beauty on its dark blue sea,) 

Winning its way among the billowy clouds, 

Unoar'd, unpiloted, moved on. The sky 

Was studded thick with stars, which glittering streamed 

An intermittent splendour through the heavens. 

I turn d my glance to earth ; — the mountain-winds 

Were sleeping in their caves, — and the wild sea, 

With its innumerous billows, melted down 

To one unmoving mass, lay stretch'd beneath 

In deep and tranced slumber ; giving back 

The host above with all its dazzling shene, 

To Fancy's ken, as though the luminous sky 

Had rain d down stars upon its breast. Suddenly 

The scene grew dim : those living lights rush'd out, 

And the fair moon, with all her gorgeous train, 

Had vanish' d like the frost-work of a dream. 

Darkness arose, and volumed clouds swept o'er 

Earth and the ocean. Through the gloom, at times, 

Sicilian ^Etna's blood-red flame was seen 

Fitfully flickering. The stillness now 

Yielded to murmurs hurtling on the air 

From out her deep-voiced crater ; and the winds 

Burst through their bonds of adamant, and lash'd 



342 ALARIC WATTS. 

The weltering ocean, that so lately lay 
Calm as the slumbers of a cradled child, 
To a demoniac's madness. The broad wave 
Swell'd into boiling surges, which appear'd, 
Whene'er the mountain's lurid light reveal'd 
Their progress to the eye, presumptuously 
To dash against the ebon roof of heaven. 

Then came a sound — a fearful, deafening sound — 

Sudden and loud, as if an earthquake rent 

The globe to its foundations : with a rush, 

Startling deep midnight on her throne, rose up, 

From the red mouth of ./Etna's burning mount, 

A giant-tree of fire, whence sprouted out 

Thousands of boundless branches, which put forth 

Their fiery foliage in the sky, and shower'd 

Their fruit, the red-hot levin, to the earth 

In terrible profusion. Some fell back 

Into the hell from whence they sprang, and some, 

Gaining an impulse from the winds that raged 

Unceasingly around, sped o'er the main, 

And, hissing, dived to an eternal home 

Beneath its yawning billows. The black smoke, 

Blotting the snows that shroud chill Cuma's height, 

Roll'd down the mountain's sides, girding its base 

With artificial darkness ; for the sea, 

Catania's palaces and towers, and even 

The far-off shores of Syracuse, reveal'd 

In the deep glare that deluged heaven and earth, 

Flash'd forth in fearful light upon the eye. 

And there was seen a lake of liquid fire, 

Streaming and streaming slowly on its course, 

And widening as it fiow'd, (like the dread jaws 

Of some huge monster ere its prey be fang'd). 

At its approach the loftiest pines bent down, 

And strew'd its surface with their trunks ; — the earth 

Shook at its coming ; — towns and villages, 



ALARIC WATTS. 343 

Deserted of their habitants, were whelm'd 
Amid the flood, and lent it ampler force. 
The noble's palace, and the peasant's cot, 
Alike but served to swell its fiery tide. 
Shrieks of wild anguish rush'd upon the gale, 
And universal nature seem'd to wrestle 
With the gaunt forms of darkness and despair,, 



AN EPICEDIUM2. 



He left his home with a bounding heart, 

For the world was all before him ; 
And felt it scarce a pain to part, 

Such sun-bright beams came o'er him. 
He turn'd him to visions of future years, 

The rainbow's hues were round them ; 
And a father's bodings — a mother's tears — 

Might not weigh with the hopes that crown'd them. 

That mother's cheek is far paler now 

Than when she last caress'd him ; 
There's an added gloom on that father's brow, 

Since the hour when last he bless'd him. 
Oh ! that all human hopes should prove 

Like the flowers that will fade to-morrow ; 
And the cankering fears of anxious love 

Ever end in truth and sorrow. 

He left his home with a swelling sail, 

Of fame and fortune dreaming, — 
With a spirit as free as the vernal gale, 

Or the pennon above him streaming. 
He hath reach'd his goal ; — by a distant wave, 

'Neath a sultry sun they've laid him ; 
And stranger-forms bent o'er his grave, 

When the last sad rites were paid him. 

2 Epicedium, a funeral hymn. . _. 



344 ALARIC WATTS. 

He should have died in his own loved land, 

With friends and kinsmen near him ; 
Not have wither'd thus on a foreign strand, 

With no thought, save of heaven, to cheer him. 
But what recks it now? Is his sleep less sound 

In the port where the wild winds swept him, 
Than if home's green turf his grave had bound, 

Or the hearts he loved had wept him ? 

Then why repine ? Can he feel the rays 

That pestilent sun sheds o'er him ; 
Or share the grief that may cloud the days 

Of the friends who now deplore him ? 
No — his bark's at anchor — its sails are furl'd — 

It hath 'scaped the storm's deep chiding ; 
And, safe from the buffeting waves of the world, 

In a haven of peace is riding. 



THE REV. J. MOULTRIE 



Is known to us only as the author of the following exquisite piece, 
displays the true spirit of poetry. 



MY BROTHER'S GRAA T E. 

Beneath the chancel's hallow'd stone, 

Exposed to every rustic tread, 
To few, save rustic mourners, known, 

My brother, is thy lowly bed. 
Few words, upon thy rough stone graven, 

Thy name — thy birth — thy youth declare- 
Thy innocence — thy hopes of heaven, 

In simplest phrase recorded there. 
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave, 
In mockery o'er my brother's grave ! 



MOULTRIE. 345 






The place is silent. Rarely sound 
Is heard these ancient walls around, 
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet 
Discoursing in the public street ; 
Nor hum of business dull and loud, 
Nor murmur of the passing crowd, 
Nor soldiers drum, nor trumpet's swell, 
From neighbouring fort or citadel ; 
No sound of human toil or strife 
In death's lone dwelling speaks of life, 
Or breaks the silence still and deep 

Where thou, beneath thy burial-stone, 
Art laid in that unstartled sleep 

The living eye hath never known. 
The lonely sexton's footstep falls 
In dismal echoes on the walls, 
As, slowly pacing through the aisle, 

He sweeps the unholy dust away,] 
And cobwebs, which must not defile 

Those windows on the Sabbath-day ; 
And, passing through the central nave, 
Treads lightly on my brother's grave. 
But when the sweet-toned Sabbath-chime, 

Pouring its music on the breeze, 
Proclaims the well-known holy time 
Of .prayer, and thanks, and bended knees ; 
When rustic crowds devoutly meet, 

And lips and hearts to God are given, 
And souls enjoy oblivion sweet 

Of earthly ills, in thoughts of heaven ; 
What voice of calm and solemn tone 
Is heard above thy burial-stone ? 
What form, in priestly meek array, 
Beside the altar kneels to pray ? 
What holy hands are lifted up, 
To bless the sacramental cup ? 



346 MOULTRIE. 

Full well I know that reverend form, 

And if a voice could reach the dead, 
Those tones would reach thee, though the worm, 

My brother, makes thy heart his bed. 
That sire, who thy existence gave, 
Now stands beside thy lowly grave. 
It is not long since thou wert wont 

Within these sacred walls to kneel : 
This altar, that baptismal font, 

These stones, which now thy dust conceal, 
The sweet tones of the Sabbath-bell, 

Were holiest objects to thy soul ; 
On these thy spirit loved to dwell, 

Untainted by the world's control. 
My brother, those were happy days, 

When thou and I were children yet ! 
How fondly memory still surveys 

Those scenes, the heart can ne'er forget ! 
My soul was then, as thine is now, 

Unstain'd by sin, unstung by pain ; 
Peace smiled on each unclouded brow — 

Mine ne'er will be so calm again. 
How blithely then we hail'd the ray 
Which usher' d in the Sabbath-day ! 
How lightly then our footsteps trod 
Yon pathway to the house of God ! 
For souls, in which no dark offence 
Hath sullied childhood's innocence, 
Best meet the pure and hallow'd shrine, 
Which guiltier bosoms own divine. 
I feel not now as then I felt ; — 

The sunshine of my heart is o'er ; 
The spirit now is changed, which dwelt 

Within me, in the days of yore. 
But thou wert snatch' d, my brother, hence 
In all thy guileless innocence ; 



MOULTRIE. 347 

One Sabbath saw thee bend the knee, 
In reverential piety, — 
(For childish faults forgiveness crave) — 
The next beam'd brightly on thy grave. 
The crowd, of which thou late wert one, 
Now throngs across thy burial-stone ; 
Rude footsteps trample on the spot, 
Where thou liest mouldering — not forgot ; 
And some few gentler bosoms weep 
In silence o'er thy last long sleep. 
I stood not by thy feverish bed, 

I look'd not on thy glazing eye, 
Nor gently lull'd thy aching head, 

Nor view'd thy dying agony ; 
I felt not what my parents felt, — 

The doubt — the terror — the distress ; — 
Nor vainly for my brother knelt ; — 

My soul was spared that wretchedness : 
One sentence told me, in a breath, 
My brothers illness and his death! 

And days of mourning glided by, 
And brought me back my gaiety ; 
For soon in childhood's wayward heart 
Doth crush' d affection cease to smart. 
Again I join'd the sportive crowd 
Of boyish playmates, wild and loud ; 
I learnt to view with careless eye 
My sable garb of misery ; 
No more I wept my brother s lot, — 
His image was almost forgot ; 
And every deeper shade of pain 
Had vanish'd from my soul again. 

The well-known morn, I used to greet 

With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, 

And thoughts of home and raptures sweet 
In every eye but mine were gleaming ; 



348 MOULTRIE. 

But I, amidst that youthful hand 

Of bounding hearts and beaming eyes, 

Nor smiled nor spoke at joy's command, 
Nor felt those wonted ecstacies ! 

I loved my home, but trembled now 

To view my father's alter'd brow ; 

I fear'd to meet my mother's eye, 

And hear her voice of agony ; 

I fear'd to view my native spot, 

Where he who loved it now was not. 

The pleasures of my home were fled ; — 

My brother slumber'd with the dead. 

I drew near to my father's gate ; 

No smiling faces met me now, 
I entered, — all was desolate, 

Grief sat upon my mother's brow ; 
I heard her, as she kiss'd me, sigh ; 
A tear stood in my father's eye ; 
My little brothers round me press'd, 
In gay, unthinking childhood bless'd. 
Long, long, that hour has pass'd ; but when 
Shall I forget its gloomy scene ! 

The Sabbath came. . With mournful face 

I sought my brother's burial-place ; 

That shrine, which when I last had view'd, 

In vigour by my side he stood. 

I gazed around with fearful eye : 

All things reposed in sanctity. 

I reach' d the chancel, — nought was changed : 

The altar decently arranged, 

The pure white cloth above the shrine, 

The consecrated bread and wine, 

All was the same. I found no trace 

Of sorrow in that holy place. 

One hurried glance I downward gave, — 

„„-„„,—„„.,,, 



MOULTRIE. 349 

And years have pass'd — and thou art now 

Forgotten in thy silent tomb ; 
And cheermlis my mothers brow ; 

My father's eye has lost its gloom ; 
And years have pass'd — and death has laid 

Another victim by thy side ; 
With thee he roams, an infant shade, 

But not more pure than thee he died. 
Blest are ye both ! your ashes rest 
Beside the spot ye loved the best ; 
And that dear home, which saw your birth, 
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth. 
But who can tell what blissful shore 
Your angel-spirits wander o'er ! 
And who can tell what raptures high 
Now bless your immortality ! 

My boyish days are nearly gone ; 

My breast is not unsullied now ; 
And worldly cares and woes will soon 

Cut their deep furrows on my brow, — 
And life will take a darker hue 
From ills my brother never knew ; 
And I have made me bosom friends, 

And loved, and link'd my heart with others ; 
But who with mine his spirit blends, 

As mine was blended with my brother's ! 
When years of rapture glided by, 

The spring of life's unclouded weather, 
Our souls were knit, and thou and I, 

My brother, grew in love together. 
The chain is broke that bound us then ; 
When shall I find its like agrain ! 



350 



T. K. HERVEY'S 

Poebis contain great promise of future excellency ; they display all the 
warmth of a generous and noble youthful mind, which the world has not 
yet warped into selfishness, nor chilled by the lessons of self-interest. 



MY SISTER'S GRAVE. 

The noon-day sun is riding high, 
Along the calm and cloudless sky ; 
The mantle of its gorgeous glow 
Floats sleepily o'er all below ; 
And heaven and earth are brightly gay 
Beneath the universal ray : — 
But not a wandering sunbeam falls 
Within these high and hallow 1 d walls, 
Which echo back my lonely tread, 
Like solemn answers from the dead ; 
— The murmurs steal along the nave, 
And die above my sister s grave ! 
'Tis evening — still I linger here : 
Yet sorrow speaks not in a tear ! 
The silence is so sadly deep, 
The place so pure, I dare not weep : 
I sit as in a shapeless dream, 
Where all is changing, save its theme ; 
And if a sigh will sometimes heave 
A heart that loves, but may not grieve, 
It seems as though the spirits round 
Sent back reproachfully the sound ; 
And then I start, and think I have 
A chiding from my sister s grave ! 

The feeling is a nameless one 
With which I sit upon thy stone, 






HERVEY. 351 

And read the tale I dare not breathe, 
Of blighted hope that sleeps beneath. 
A simple tablet bears above 
Brief record of a father s love, 
And hints, in language yet more brief. 
The story of a father s grief: 
Around the night-breeze sadly plays, 
With scutcheons of the elder days ; 
And faded banners dimly wave 
On high, right o'er my sister s grave ! 

Lost spirit ! — thine was not a breast 

To struggle vainly after rest ; 

Thou wert not made to bear the strife, 

Nor labour through the storms of life ; 

Thy heart was in too warm a mould 

To mingle with the dull and cold ; 

And every thought that wrong' d thy truth, 

Fell like a blight upon thy youth : 

Thou should' st have been, for thy distress, 

Less pure, and, oh ! more passionless ; 

For sorrow's wasting mildew gave 

Thy beauty to my sister's grave. 

But all thy griefs, my girl, are o'er, — 
Thy fair-blue eyes shall weep no more ; 
'Tis sweet to know thy fragile form 
Lies safe from every future storm. 
Oft as I haunt the dreary gloom, 
That gathers round thy peaceful tomb, 
I love to see the lightning stream 
Along thy stone with fitful gleam ; 
To fancy in each flash are given 
Thy spirit's visitings from heaven ; 
And smile to hear the tempest rave 
Above my sister's quiet grave ! 



3.52 HERVEY. 

THE CONVICT SHIP. 



Morn on the waters ! and purple and bright 

Bursts on the billows the flashing of light ; 

O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun, 

See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ; 

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, 

And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale : 

The winds come around her, in murmur and song. 

And the surges rejoice as they bear her along. 

See ! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds, 

And the sailor sings gaily aloft in her shrouds : 

Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray, 

Over the waters, away and away ! 

Bright as the visions of youth ere they part, 

Passing away, like a dream of the heart ! 

Who, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, 

Music around her, and sunshine on high, 

Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow, 

Oh ! there be hearts that are breaking below ! 

Night on the waves ! and the moon is on high, 
Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky, 
Treading its depths in the power of her might, 
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light ! 
Look to the waters ! asleep on their breast 
Seems not the ship like an island of rest ? 
Bright and alone on the shadowy main, 
Like a heart-cherish' d home on some desolate plain ! 
Who, as she smiles in the silvery light, 
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, 
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky, 
A phantom of beauty, — could deem with a sigh, 
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, 
And souls that are smitten lie bursting within ? 



355 



THE REV. W. L. BOWLES 

Is a very amiable, but not a very powerful, writer; he is tender, easy, 
and graceful ; he always pleases, but never astonishes ; and he addresses 
the affections, rather than the passions, of his readers. In private life, 
he is worthy of the highest praise for the zeal and fidelity with which 
he discharges the arduous duties of a Christian minister. 



ABBA THULE. 



I climb the highest cliff: I hear the sound 
Of dashing waves ; I gaze intent around : 
I mark the sun that orient lifts his head ! 
I mark the seas lone rule beneath him spread : 
But not a speck can my long-straining eye, 
A shadow, o'er the tossing waste descry, 
That I might weep tears of delight, and say, 
" It is the bark that bore my child away ! " 

Thou sun, that beamest bright, beneath whose eye 
The worlds unknown, and out-stretch: d waters, lie, 
Dost thou behold him now ? On some rude shore, 
Around whose crags the cheerless billows roar, 
Watching th' unwearied surges doth he stand, 
And think upon his father* s distant land? 
Or has his heart forgot, so far away, 
These native scenes, these rocks and torrents gray, 
The tall bananas whispering to the breeze, 
The shores, the sound of these encircling seas, 
Heard from his infant days, and the piled heap 
Of holy stones, where his forefathers sleep. 

Ah, me ! till, sunk by sorrow, I shall dwell 
With them forgetful in the narrow cell, 
Never shall time from my fond heart efface 
His image ; oft his shadow I shall trace 
Upon the glimmering waters, when on high 
The white moon wanders through the cloudless sky. 

z 2 



356 BOWLES. 

Oft in my silent cave (when to its fire 
From the night's rushing tempest we retire) 
I shall behold his form, his aspect bland ; 
I shall retrace his footsteps in the sand ; 
And, when the hollow-sounding surges swell, 
Still think I listen to his echoing shell. 

Would I had perish' d ere that hapless day, 
When the tall vessel, in its trim array, 
First rush'd upon the sounding surge, and bore 
My age's comfort from the sheltering shore ! 
I saw it spread its white wings to the wind — 
Too soon it left these hills and woods behind — 
Gazing, its course I follow' d till mine eye 
No longer could its distant track descry ; 
Till on the confines of the billows hoar 
Awhile it hung, and then was seen no more ; 
And only the blue hollow heav'n I spied, 
A nd the long waste of waters tossing wide. 

More mournful, then, each falling surge I heard : 
Then dropt the stagnant tear upon my beard. 
Methought the wild waves said, amidst their roar 
At midnight, " Thou shalt see thy son no more ! " 

Now thrice twelve moons through the mid heav"ns 
have roll'd, 
And many a dawn, and slow night, have I told ; 
And still, as every weary day goes by, 
A knot recording on my line I tie ; 
But never more, emerging from the main, 
I see the stranger's bark approach again. 
Has the fell storm o'erwhelm'd him ? Has its sweep 
Buried the bounding vessel in the deep ? 
Is he cast bleeding on some desert plain ? 
Upon his father did he call in vain ? 
Have pitiless and bloody tribes defiled 
. The cold limbs of my brave, my beauteous child ? 



BOWLES. 357 

Oh ! I shall never, never hear his voice ; 
The spring-time shall return, the isles rejoice ; 
But faint and weary I shall meet the morn, 
And 'mid the cheering sunshine droop forlorn ! 

The joyous conch sounds in the high wood loud, 
O'er all the beach now stream the busy crowd ; 
Fresh breezes stir the waving plantain-grove ; 
The fisher carols in the winding cove ; 
And light canoes along the lucid tide, 
With painted shells and sparkling paddles, glide. 
I linger on the desert rock alone, 
Heartless, and cry for thee, my Son ! my Son ! 



SUN-DIAL IN A CHURCH- YARD. 



So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade, 
Brief Time ! and hour by hour, and day by day, 

The pleasing pictures of the present fade, 
And like a summer vapour steal away. 

And have not they, who here forgotten lie 

(Say, hoary chronicler of ages past), 
Once mark'd thy shadow with delighted eye, 

Nor thought it fled, — how certain, and how fast ? 

Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept, 

Noting each hour, o'er mould'ring stones beneath; 

The pastor and his flock alike have slept, 

And " dust to dust" proclaim'd the stride of death. 

Another race succeeds, and counts the hour, 
Careless alike ; the hour still seems to smile, 

As hope, and youth, and life, were in our pow'r ; 
So smiling and so perishing the while. 



358 BOWLES. 

I heard the village-bells, with gladsome sound 
(When to these scenes a stranger I drew near), 

Proclaim the tidings to the village round, 

While mem'ry wept upon the good mans bier. 

Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells 
Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone ; 

While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells, 
And strangers gaze upon my humble stone ! 

Enough, if we may wait in calm content 
The hour that bears us to the silent sod ; 

Blameless improve the time that Heav'n has lent, 
And leave the issue to Thy will, O God ! 



THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS. 

When evening listen 1 d to the dripping oar, 

Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar, 

By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride, 

Reflects that stately structure on his side, 

Within whose walls, as their long labours close, 

The wanderers of the ocean find repose, 

We wore in social ease the hours away, 

The passing visit of a summers day. 

Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone, 
I linger d on the river s marge alone, 
Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray, 
And watch' d the last bright sunshine steal away. 

As thus I mused amidst the various train 
Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main, 
Two sailors — well I mark'd them (as the beam 
Of parting day yet linger' d on the stream, 
And the sun sunk behind the shady reach) — 
Hasten' d with tottering footsteps to the beach. 



BOWLES. 359 

The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight ; 
Total eclipse had veil'd the other s sight 
For ever ! As I drew more anxious near, 
I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear ; 
But neither said a word ! He who was blind 
Stood as to feel the comfortable wind 
That gently lifted his gray hair : his face 
Seem'd then of a faint smile to wear the trace. 

The other fixd his gaze upon the light 

Parting ; and when the sun had vanish' d quite, 

Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless, 

Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness, 

Came to his aged eyes, and touch' d his cheek ! 

And then, as meek and silent as before, 

Back hand-in-hand they went, and left the shore. 

As they departed through the unheeding crowd, 
A caged bird sung from the casement loud ; 
And then I heard alone that blind man say, 
" The music of the bird is sweet to-day ! " 

I said, " O Heavenly Father ! none may know 
The cause these have for silence or for woe ! " 
Here they appear heart-stricken and resign'd, 
Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind. 

There is a world, a pure, unclouded clime, 
Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time ! 
Nor loss of friends ! Perhaps, when^yonder bell 
Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell, 
Ere yet the glimmering landscape sunk to night, 
They thought upon that world of distant light ! 
And when the blind man, lifting light his hair, 
Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer ; 
Then sigh'd, as the blithe bird sung o'er his head, 
" No morn will shine on me till I am dead ! " 



360 



JOHN KEATS 

Was born in London, October 29, 1796, and at an early age exhibited 
considerable poetic power. His first productions were, however, treated 
with such severe criticisms, that his spirits were broken ; the sensitive- 
ness of his feelings worked fatally on his feeble body, and he died pre- 
maturely at Rome, in the beginning of 1821. 

Keats's poems contain the germs of excellence, rather than finished 
beauties ; they lead us rather to regret the loss of what he might have 
done, than to admire what we possess. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Coord a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With headed bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim ; 



KEATS. 361 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies : 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs, 
W r here Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster d around by all her starry fays ; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild : 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets cover d up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 
I have been half in love with easeful Death, 

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 
To take into the air my quiet breath ; 



362 KEATS. 

Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad' 
In such an ecstacy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm' d magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking-dream ? 

Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ? 



ROBIN HOOD. 

No ! those days are gone away, 
And their hours are old and gray, 
And their minutes buried all 
Under the down-trodden pall 



KEATS. 363 



Of the leaves of many years : 
Many times have Winter s shears, 
Frozen North, and chilling East, 
Sounded tempests to the feast 
Of the forest's whispering fleeces, 
Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 

No, the bugle sounds no more, 
And the twanging bow no more ; 
Silent is the ivory shrill 
Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid-forest laugh, 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight, amazed to hear 
Jesting, deep in forest drear. 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, with sun or moon, 
Or the seven stars, to light you, 
Or the polar ray to right you ; 
But you never may behold 
Little John, or Robin bold ; 
Never one, of all the clan, 
Thrumming on an empty can 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguile 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the pasture Trent ; 
For he left the merry tale 
Messenger for spicy ale. 

Gone, the merry morris din ; 
Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; 
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
Idling in the " greene shawe ; " 
All are gone away and past ! 
And if Robin should be cast 
Sudden from his tufted grave, 
And if Marian should have 



364 KEATS. 

Once again her forest days, 
She would weep, and he would craze : 
He would swear, for all his oaks, 
FalVn beneath the dock-yard strokes, 
Have rotted on the briny seas : 
She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — strange ! that honey- 
Can t be got without hard money ! 

So it is ; yet let us sing 
Honour to the old bow-string ! 
Honour to the bugle-horn ! 
Honour to the woods unshorn ! 
Honour to the Lincoln-green ! 
Honour to the archer keen ! 
Honour to tight Little John, 
And the horse he rode upon ! 
Honour to bold Robin Hood, 
Sleeping in the underwood ! 
Honour to Maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood clan ! 
Though their days have hurried by, 
Let us two a burden try. 



JAMES HOGG 

Is a writer of great original powers, which, unfortunately, have not been 
improved by cultivation. His poems are very unequal : some of them 
rank among the first, and many among the last, in our language. Few, 
however, will deny that the author of Bonnie Kilmeny possesses the 
feelings and the imagination of a genuine poet. 



ELEGY. 



Fair was thy blossom, tender flower, 
That opend like the rose in May, 

Though nursed beneath the chilly shower 
Of fell regret, for love's decay. 



HOGG. 365 

How oft thy mother heaved the sigh 

O'er wreaths of honour early shorn, 
Before thy sweet and guiltless eye 

Had open'd on the dawn of morn. 

How oft, above thy lowly bed, 

When all in silence slumber d low, 
The fond and filial tear was shed, 

Thou child of love, of shame, and woe ! 

Her wrong'd but gentle bosom burn VI 

With joy thy opening bloom to see ; 
The only breast that o'er thee yearn' d ; 

The only heart that cared for thee. 

Oft her young eye, with tear-drops bright, 
Pleaded with Heaven for her sweet child, 

When faded dreams of past delight 
O'er recollection wander'd wild. 

Fair was thy blossom, bonny flower, 

Fair as the softest wreaths of spring, 
When late I saw thee seek the bower 

In peace thy morning hymn to sing. 

Thy little foot across the lawn 

Scarce from the primrose press'd the dew ; 
I thought the spirit of the dawn 

Before me to the greenwood flew. 

Even then the shaft was on the wing, 

Thy spotless soul from earth to sever, 
A tear of pity wet the string 

That twang'd, and seal'd thy doom for ever. 

• 
I saw thee late, the emblem fair 

Of beauty, innocence, and truth, 

Start tiptoe on the verge of air, 

'Twixt childhood and unstable youth ; 



366 HOGG. 

But now I see thee stretch' d at rest : 

To break that rest shall wake no morrow ! 

Pale as the grave-flower on thy breast ! 
Poor child of love, of shame, and sorrow ! 

May thy long sleep be sound and sweet ; 

Thy visions fraught with bliss to be ; 
And long the daisy, emblem meet, 

Shall shed its earliest tear o'er thee ! 



THE FATE OF MACGREGOR. 

" Macgregor, Macgregor, remember our foemen ; 
The moon rises broad from the brow of Ben-Lomond ; 
The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay ; 
Arise ! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away." 

Stern scowl'd the Macgregor, then silent and sullen, 
He turn'd his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan : 
" Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismiss'd : 
The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest." — 

" Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying, 
Three days, round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon ; 
Of riding and running such tidings they bear, 
We must meet them at home, else they'll quickly be here. 

" The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him, 
And haughty M'Nab, with his giants behind him : 
This night I am bound to relinquish the fray, 
And do what it freezes my vitals to say. 
Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind ; 
Thou know'st in the strife I was never behind, 
Nor ever receded a foot from the van, 
Or blenched at the ire or the prowess of man. 
But I've sworn by the cross, by my God, and by all ! 
An oath which I cannot, and dare not recall, — 



HOGG. 367 

Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile, 
To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-Gyle. 

" Last night, in my chamher, all thoughtful and lone, 
I call*d to rememhrance some deeds I had done, 
When enter d a lady, with visage so wan, 
And looks such as never were fasten d on man. 
I knew her, O brother, I knew her full well ! 
Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell 
As would thrill thy bold heart; but how long she remain'd. 
So rack'd was my spirit, my bosom so pain'd, 
I knew not — but ages seem'd short to the while. 
Though, proffer the Highlands, nay, all the green isle, 
"With length of existence no man can enjoy, 
The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly ! 
The thrice-threaten'd pangs of last night to forego, 
Macgregor would dive to the mansions below. 
Despairing and mad, to futurity blind, 
The present to shun, and some respite to find, 
I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile, 
To meet her alone by the brook of Glen-Gyle. 

" She told me, and turn d my chuTd heart to a stone, 
The glory and name of Macgregor was gone : 
That the pine, which for ages had shed a bright halo 
Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen-Falo, 
Should wither and fall ere the turn of yon moon, 
Smit through by the canker of hated Colqjuhoun : 
That a feast on Macgregors each day should be common, 
For years, to the eagles of Lennox and Lomond. 

" A parting embrace, in one moment, she gave : 
Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave ; 
Then flitting elusive, she said, with a frown, 
' The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own ! ' " — 

" Macgregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind; 
The dreams of the night have disorder* d thy mind. 



368 HOGG. 

Come, buckle thy panoply — march to the field. — 
See, brother, how hack'd are thy helmet and shield ! 
Ay, that was M'Nab, in the height of his pride, 
When the lions of Dochart stood firm by his side. 
This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue ; 
Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart-blood will glue : 
Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing, 
When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring." — 

Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night, 
Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light : 
It faded — it darken' d — he shudder d — he sigh'd, — 
" No ! not for the universe ! " low he replied. 

Away went Macgregor, but went not alone ; 
To watch the dread rendezvous, Malcolm has gone. 
They oar'd the broad Lomond, so still and serene ! 
And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene ! 
O'er mountains inverted the blue waters curl'd, 
And rock'd them on skies of a far nether world. 

All silent they went, for the time was approaching ; 
The moon the blue zenith already was touching ; 
No foot was abroad on the forest or hill, 
No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill ; 
Young Malcolm at distance, couch' d, trembling the while,— 
Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle. 

Few minutes had pass'd, ere they spied on the stream, 
A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem ; 
Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom, 
The glow-worm her wakelight, the rainbow her boom ; 
A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast, 
Like wold-fire, at midnight, that glares on the waste. 
Though rough was the river with rock and cascade, 
No torrent, no rock, her velocity stayd ; 
She wimpled the water to weather and lee, 
And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea. 



HOGG. i 369 

Mute Nature\vas roused in the bounds of the glen ; 
The wild deer of Gairtney abandon d his den, 
Fled panting away over river and isle, 
Nor once turnd his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle. 

The fox fled in terror, the eagle awoke, 
As slumbering he dozed in the shelve of the rock ; 
Astonish'd, to hide in the moon- beam he flew, 
And screw' d the night-heaven till lost in the blue. 

Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach, 
The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch. 
He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain, 
As begging for something he could not obtain ; 
She raised him indignant, derided his stay, 
Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away. 

Though fast the red bark down the river did glide, 
Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side ; 
" Macgregor ! Macgregor ! " he bitterly cried ; 
" Macgregor ! Macgregor ! " the echoes replied. 
He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem, 
His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream ; 
But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain, 
Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain. — 
They reach'd the dark lake, and bore lightly away ; 
Macgregor is vanish' d for ever and aye ! 



2 a 



37] 



THE AMERICAN POETS. 



The American Poets are English in every thing but their 
scenery. They have retained all the best characteristics of 
English literature, — freedom of thought, daring energy, manly 
feeling, and pathos never degenerating into sickly sentimen- 
tality. The memory of their recent struggle for independence 
has made many of them hostile to the political power of 
England, but none inimical to its literary pre-eminence. They 
know that they cannot hope to rival the fame of Shakspeare 
or Milton, and they have, therefore, made the fame of these 
poets part of their own ; regarding them, as indeed they are, 
the common property of all who speak the English language. 



JAMES K. PAULDING 

Is a native of the state of New York. He first became distinguished as 
a humorous writer, and displayed great comic powers. His great poem, 
The Backwoodsman, published in 1818, is more valuable for its faithful 
delineation of American scenery and manners, than for higher qualifica- 
tions. It was a hasty and imperfect work, rather showing what its author 
could do, if he bestowed more pains, than giving the world a fair oppor- 
tunity of estimating his powers. 



THE BACKWOODSMAN. 

Our Basil beat the lazy sun next day, 
And bright and early had been on his way, 
But that the world he saw e'en yesternight, 
Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight. 
One endless chaos spread before his eyes, 
No vestige left of earth or azure skies, 

2 A 2 



372 PAULDING. 

A boundless nothingness reign d eveiy where, 
Hid the green fields, and silent all the air. 
As look'd the traveller for the world below, 
The lively morning-breeze began to blow, 
The magic curtain roll'd in mists away, 
And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day. 
As light the fleeting vapours upward glide, 
Like sheeted spectres on the mountain- side, 
New objects open to his wondering view, 
Of various forms and combinations new. 
A rocky precipice, a waving wood, 
Deep-winding dell, and foaming mountain-flood, 
Each after each, with coy and sweet delay, 
Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day, 
Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, 
Like giant capp'd with helm of burnish' d gold. 
So when the wandering grandsire of our race 
On Ararat had found a resting-place, 
At first a shoreless ocean met his eye, 
Mingling on every side with one blue sky ; 
But as the waters, every passing day, 
Sunk in the earth, or roll'd in mists away, 
Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peep 
From the rough bosom of the boundless deep ; 
Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green, 
Each after each, in freshen' d bloom are seen, 
Till, at the last, a fair and finish' d whole 
Combined to win the gazing patriarch's soul. 
Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye. 
In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy 
Within the silent world, some living thing, 
Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing, 
Or man, or beast. Alas ! was neither there, 
Nothing that breathed of life in earth or air ; 
'Twas a vast silent mansion, rich and gay, 
Whose occupant wasdrown' dthe other day ; 



PAULDING. 

A churchyard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom 
Amid the melancholy of the tomb ; 
A charnel-house, where all the human race 
Had piled their bones in one wide resting-place ; 
Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of woe, 
And sadly sought the lifeless world below. 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY 

Is the Felicia Hemans of America ; she does not possess the high chival- 
rous spirit of the English poetess ; but, in its place, she evinces a more 
lively perception of the beauties of nature. 



THE CORAL INSECT, 

Toil on ! toil on! ye ephemeral 1 train, 

Who build in the tossing and treacherous main ; 

Toil on, — for the wisdom of man ye mock, 

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock ; 

Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, 

And your arches spring up to the crested wave ; 

Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear 

A fabric so vast in a realm so drear. 

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, 
The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone ; 
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, 
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king 2 ; 
The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd ; 
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; 
The sea-snatch' d isle is the home of men, 
And mountains exult where the wave hath been. 

But why do ye plant, 'neath the billows dark, 
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? 

1 ephemeral, living only a day. 2 Assyria's Ung, Nebuchadnezzar. 



374 SIGOURNEY. 

There are snares enough on the tented field, 
'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield ; 
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up ; 
There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup, 
There are foes that watch for his cradle -breath, 
And why need ye sow the floods with death ? 

With mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright ; — 
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold 
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold, 
And the gods of ocean have frown d to see 
The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; 
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread 
The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? 

Ye build, — ye build, — but ye enter not in, 
Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin 
From the land of promise ye fade and die, 
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye ; 
As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyramid 
Their noteless bones in oblivion hid ; 
Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main, 
While the wonder and pride of your works remain. 



DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow, 
And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose 
On cheek and lip ; he touch'd the veins with ice, 
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes 
There spoke a wishful tenderness, — a doubt 
Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence 
Alone can wear. With ruthless haste he bound 
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids 



SIGOURNEY. 375 

For ever. There had been a murmuring sound, 
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, 
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set 
His seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile, 
So fix' d and holy, from that marble brow, — 
Death gazed and left it there ; he dared not steal 
The signet-ring of Heaven. 



ROBERT C. SANDS 



Is the Editor of a New York paper. In conjunction with Mr. Eastburn, 
he wrote Yamoyden, a poem descriptive of Indian life. He displayed, 
i n his parts of the poem, great originality of thought, lively conception 
of character, and felicity of expression. 



YAMOYDEN. 

Know ye the Indian warrior-race ? 

How their light form springs in strength and grace, 

Like pine on their native mountain-side, 

That will not bow in its deathless pride ; 

Whose rugged limbs of stubborn tone 

No flexuous power of art will own, 

But bend to Heaven s red bolt alone ! 

How their hue is deep as the western dye, 

That fades in autumn's evening sky ; 

That lives for ever upon their brow, 

In the summer's heat and the winter's snow ; 

How their raven locks of tameless strain, 

Stream like the desert-courser's mane : 

How their glance is far as the eagle's flight, 

And fierce and true as the panther's sight : 

How their souls are like the crystal wave, 

Where the spirit dwells in the northern cave ; 



376 SANDS. 

Unruffled in its cavern d bed, 
Calm lies its glimmering surface spread ; 
Its springs, its outlet unconfess'd, 
The pebble's weight upon its breast, 
Shall wake its echoing thunders deep, 
And when their muttering accents sleep, 
Its dark recesses hear them yet, 
And tell of deathless love or hate ! 



JOHN PIERPONT, 



A native of Connecticut, is favourably known in England by his ^4trs 
of Palestine, a poem of singular merit. His odes and lyrical pieces are, 
however, superior to the Palestine, and some of them could scarcely 
be surpassed by any in our language. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

The Pilgrim Fathers — where are they ? 

The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 

As they break along the shore : 
Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day, 

When the May-Flower 1 moor'd below, 
When the sea around was black with storms, 

And white the shore with snow. 
The mists that wrapp'd the pilgrims' sleep, 

Still brood upon the tide ; 
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride. 
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, 

When the heavens look'd dark, is gone ; — 
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, 

Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

1 May-Flower, the name of the ship that brought the first colonists to New 
England. 



PIERPONT. 377 

The pilgrim exile — sainted name ! — 

The hill whose icy brow- 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 

In the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the hill-side and the sea, 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; 

But the pilgrim — where is he ? 

The pilgrim fathers are at rest : 

When summer 's throned on high, 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dress'd, 

Go stand on the hill where they lie. 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On that hallow'd spot is cast ; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 

The pilgrim spirit has not fled ; 

It walks in noon's broad light ; 
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 

With the holy stars, by night. 
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 

And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay, 

Shall foam and freeze no more. 



NAPOLEON AT REST. 

His falchion waved along the Nile, 
His host he led through Alpine snows ; 

O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while, 
His eagle-flag unroll'd — and froze ! 



378 PIERPONT. 

Here sleeps he now, alone ! — not one, 
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, 

Bends o'er his dust ; nor wife nor son 
Has ever seen or sought his grave. 

Behind the sea-girt rock, the star 
That led him on from crown to crown, 

Has sunk, and nations from afar 
Gazed as it faded and went down. 

High is his tomh : the ocean-flood, 
Far, far below, by storms is curl'd — 

As round him heaved, while high he stood, 
A stormy and unstable world. 

Alone he sleeps : the mountain cloud, 

That night hangs round him, and the breath 

Of morning scatters, is the shroud 

That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. 

Pause here ! The far-off world at last 
Breathes free ; the hand that shook its thrones, 

And to the earth its mitres cast, 

Lies powerless now beneath these stones. 

Hark ! comes there from the pyramids, 
And from Siberian wastes of snow. 

And Europe's hills, a voice that bids 

The world be awed to mourn him ? No ! 

The only, the perpetual dirge, 

That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry— 

The mournful murmur of the surge, 

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 



379 



CARLOS WILCOX 

Was an amiable American Divine. He resembled Cowper in many- 
respects : in the gentleness and tenderness of his sensibilities, — in the 
modest and retiring disposition of his mind, — in its fine culture and ori- 
ginal poetical cast. His longest poem, The Religion of Taste, has been 
recently republished in this country, but is not as generally known as it 
deserves to be. He died, A. D. 1827. 



ACTIVE CHRISTIAN BENEVOLENCE THE SOURCE OF 
SUBLIME AND LASTING HAPPINESS. 

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? 
Or is thy heart oppress' d with woes untold ? 
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief ? 
Pour blessing round thee like a shower of gold. 
Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold 
Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there 
Its life and beauty ; not when, all unroll' d, 
Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, 
Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. 

Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, 
Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night 
When death is waiting for thy number d hours 
To take their swift and everlasting flight ; 
Wake, ere the earth-horn charm unnerve thee quite, 
And he thy thoughts to work divine address' d ; 
Do something— do it soon — with all thy might ; 
An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, 
And God himself, inactive, were no longer bless'd. 

Some high or humble enterprise of good 
Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind, 
Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, 
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined. 



380 WILCOX. 

Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind 
To this thy purpose — to begin, pursue, 
With thoughts all fix'd, and feelings purely kind ; 
Strength to complete, and with delight review, 
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. 

No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit 
To light on man as from the passing air ; 
The lamp of genius, though by nature lit, 
If not protected, pruned, and fed with care, 
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare ; 
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers 
Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare, 
That, 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers 
Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. 

Has immortality of name been given 
To them that idly worship hills and groves, 
And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven ? 
Did Newton learn from fancy, as it roves, 
To measure worlds, and follow where each moves ? 
Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease, 
By wanderings wild that Nature's pilgrim loves ? 
Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace, 
By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece ? 

Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear 
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim 
Thy want of worth ; a charge thou couldst not hear 
From other lips without a blush of shame, 
Or pride indignant ; then be thine the blame, 
And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist 
The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ; 
'Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd, 
Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. 



WILCOX. 381 

Rouse to some work of higli and holy love, 
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know, — 
Shalt bless the earth while in the world above ; 
The good begun by thee shall onward flow 
In many a branching stream, and wider grow ; 
The seed, that, in these few and fleeting hours, 
Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow, 
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, 
And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. 



VERNAL MELODY IN THE FOREST. 



With sonorous notes 
Of every tone, mix'd in confusion sweet, 
All chanted in the fulness of delight, 
The forest rings. Where, far around enclosed 
With bushy sides, and cover' d high above 
With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks, 
Like pillars rising to support a roof, 
It seems a temple vast, the space within 
Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody. 
Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct, 
The merry mocking-bird together links 
In one continued song their different notes, 
Adding new life and sweetness to them all. 
Hid under shrubs, the squirrel, that in fields 
Frequents the stony wall and briery fence, 
Here chirps so shrill, that human feet approach 
Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries 
Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat, 
Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree ; 
But oft, a moment after, reappears, 
First peeping out, then starting forth at once 
With a courageous air, yet in his pranks 
Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far 
Till left unheeded. 



382 



RICHARD H. DANA 

Is the best, though not the most popular, of the American poets. He 
is equally excellent in the bold delineation of external scenery, and in 
painting human passion, affection, and sentiment. A rich vein of religious 
philosophy runs through all his verses : he displays a vigorous fancy and 
deep pathos of feeling, that can rarely be paralleled in modern literature. 



IMMORTALITY. 



Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love ? 
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds 
Commingling spirits ? Are thoughts that know no bounds, 
But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
The Eternal Mind— the Father of all thought- 
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? 
Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms 
Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? 
Lived in the dreadful splendour of that throne, 
Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh 
Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, reveal 1 d 
In glory ? — throne, before which, even now, 
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down, 
Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? — 
Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense, 
Thou awful, unseen Presence — are they quench' d, 
Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
By that bright day which ends not ; as the sun 
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars ? 

And with our frames do perish all our loves ? 
Do those that take their root, and put forth buds, 
And their soft leaves, unfolded in the warmth 
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, 
Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers ? 



DANA. 383 

Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech, 

And make it send forth winning harmonies, — 

That to^the cheek do give its living glow, 

And vision in the eye the soul intense 

With that for which there is no utterance — 

Are these the body's accidents ? — no more ? 

To live in it, and, when that dies, go out 

Like the burnt taper's flame ? 

O listen, man ! 
A voice within us speaks that startling word, 
" Man, thou shalt never die ! " Celestial voices 
Hymn it unto our souls ; according harps, 
By angel fingers touch' d, when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality ; 
Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 
O, listen ye, our spirits ! drink it in 
From all the air ! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 
'Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories ; Night, 
Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : 
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, 
As one vast mystic instrument, are touch'd 
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 



384 DANA. 

THE BUCCANEER. 

The island lies nine leagues away, 

Along its solitary shore, 
Of craggy rock and sandy bay, 
No sound but ocean's roar, 
Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, 
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. 
i 
But when the light winds lie at rest, 

And on the glassy, heaving sea, 
The black duck, with her glossy breast, 
Sits swinging silently ; 
How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, 
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. 

And inland rests the green, warm dell ; 

The brook comes tinkling down its side ; 
From out the trees the sabbath-bell 
Rings cheerful, far and wide, 
Mingling its sounds with bleatings of the flocks, 
That feed about the vale amongst the rocks. 

Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat, 

In former days within the vale ; 
Flapp'd in the bay the pirate's sheet ; 
Curses were on the gale ; 
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murder'd men ; 
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. 

But calm, low voices, words of grace, 

Now slowly fall upon the ear ; 
A quiet look is in each face, 
Subdued and holy fear ; 
Each motion 's gentle ; all is kindly done — 
Come, listen, how from crime this isle was won. 



385 



JAMES G. PERCIVAL 

Is one of the most learned of the American writers ; this has not always 
been of advantage to his poetry, for it has made him deal out similes and 
illustrations in such profusion, that the entireness of the impression is 
lost. He is said to write with great rapidity, and to dislike the labour of 
revision, — a circumstance that has tended greatly to injure his reputa- 
tion ; for bad lines occur even in the most beautiful of his poems. 



THE CORAL GROVE. 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 

Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 

Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, 

That never are wet with falling- dew, 

But in bright and changeful beauty shine, 

Far down in the green and glassy brine. 

The floor is of sand like the mountain-drift, 

And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ; 

From coral-rocks the sea-plants lift 

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; 

The water is calm and still below, 

For the winds and waves are absent there, 

And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 

In the motionless fields of upper air : 

There with its waving blade of green, 

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 

And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter : 

There with a slight and easy motion, 

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ; 

And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 

Are bending like corn on the upland lea : 

And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 

2 B 



386 PERCIVAL. 

And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms, 
Has made the top of the waves his own : 
And when the ship from his fury flies, 
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, 
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ; 
Then far below in the peaceful sea, 
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 
Where the waters murmur tranquilly, 
Through the bending twigs of the coral-grove. 



TO THE EAGLE. 



Bird of the broad and sweeping wing, 

Thy home is high in heaven, 
Where wide the storms their banners fling, 

And the tempest-clouds are driven. 
Thy throne is on the mountain-top ; 

Thy fields, the boundless air ; 
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop 

The skies, thy dwellings are. 

Thou sittest like a thing of light, 

Amid the noontide blaze : 
The mid-day sun is clear and bright ; 

It cannot dim thy gaze. 
Thy pinions, to the rushing blast, 

O'er the bursting billow, spread, 
Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, 

Like an angel of the dead. 

Thou art perch' d aloft on the beetling crag, 
And the waves are white below, 

And on, with a haste that cannot lag, 
They rush in an endless flow. 



PERCIVAL. 387 

Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight 

To lands heyond the sea, 
And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, 

Thou hurriest, wild and free. 

Thou hurriest over the myriad waves, 

And thou leavest them all behind ; 
Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves, 

Fleet as the tempest-wind. 
When the night- storm gathers dim and dark, 

With a shrill and boding scream, 
Thou rushest by the foundering bark, 

Quick as a passing dream. 

Lord of the boundless realm of air, 

In thy imperial name, 
The hearts of the bold and ardent dare 

The dangerous path of fame. 
Beneath the shade of thy golden wings, 

The Roman legions bore, 
From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs, 

Their pride, to the polar shore. 

For thee they fought, for thee they fell, 

And their oath was on thee laid ; 
To thee the clarions raised their swell, 

And the dying warrior pray'd. 
Thou wert, through an age of death and fears, 

The image of pride and power, 
Till the gather d rage of a thousand years 

Burst forth in one awful hour. 

And then a deluge of wrath it came, 

And the nations shook with dread ; 
And it swept the earth till its fields were flame, 

And piled with the mingled dead. 

2 b 2 



388 PERCIVAL. 

Kings were roll'd in the wasteful flood, 
With the low and crouching slave ; 

And together lay, in a shroud of blood, 
The coward and the brave. 

And where was then thy fearless flight ? 

" O'er the dark, mysterious sea, 
To the lands that caught the setting light, 

The cradle of Liberty ! 
There, on the silent and lonely shore, 

For ages, I watch' d alone, 
And the world, in its darkness, ask'd no more 

Where the glorious bird had flown. 

" But then came a bold and hardy few, 

And they breasted the unknown wave ; 
I caught afar the wandering crew, 

And I knew they were high and brave. 
I wheel' d around the welcome bark, 

As it sought the desolate shore, 
And up to heaven, like a joyous lark, 

My quivering pinions bore. 

" And now that bold and hardy few, 

Are a nation wide and strong ; 
And danger and doubt I have led them through, 

And they worship me in song ; 
And over their bright and glancing arms, 

On field, and lake, and sea, 
With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms, 

I guide them to victory ! " 



389 



JOHN NEAL 



Has been a very voluminous writer ; he possesses great poetic powers, 
sadly depraved by bad taste. No one of his larger poems commands 
approbation as a whole; but there are in them all occasional passages of 
great force and beauty. 






DAY-BREAK. 

And now the day-light comes : slowly it rides, 

In ridgy lustre o'er the cloudy tides. 

Like the soft foam upon the billow's breast, 

Or feathery light upon a shadowy crest ; 

The morning-breezes from their slumbers wake, 

And o'er the distant hill-tops cheerly shake 

Their dewy locks, and plume themselves, and poise 

Their rosy wings, and listen to the noise 

Of echoes wandering from the world below : 

The distant lake, rejoicing in its flow : 

The bugles' ready cry : the labouring drum : 

The neigh of steeds — and the incessant hum 

That the bright tenants of the forest send : 

The sun-rise gun : the heave — the wave — and bend 

Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves 

Rustle their song of praise, while ruin weaves 

A robe of verdure for their yielding bark ; 

While mossy garlands — rich, and full, and dark, 

Creep slowly round them. Monarchs of the wood ! 

Whose mighty spectres sway the mountain-brood ! 

Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay, 

Shelter the wing'd idolaters of day ; 

Who, 'mid the desert wild, sublimely stand, 

And grapple with the storm-god hand to hand ! 

Then drop like weary pyramids away ; 

Stupendous monuments of calm decay ! 



390 NEAL. 

As yet the warring thunders have not rent 
The swimming clouds, the brightening firmament, 
The lovely mists that float around the sky — 
Ruddy and rich with fresh and glorious dye, 
Like hovering seraph-wings — or robe of poesy ! 

Now comes the sun forth ! not in blaze of fire ; 
With rainbow-harness'd coursers, that respire 
An atmosphere of flame. No chariot whirls 
O'er reddening clouds. No sunny flag unfurls 
O'er rushing smoke. No chargers in array 
Scatter through heaven and earth their fiery spray. 
No shouting charioteer, in transport flings 
Ten thousand anthems, from tumultuous strings : 
And round and round no flesh-plumed echoes dance : 
No airy minstrels in the flush-light glance : 
No rushing melody comes strong and deep : 
And far away no fading winglets sweep : 
No boundless hymning o'er the blue sky rings, 
In hallelujahs to the King of kings : 
No youthful hours are seen. No riband lash 
Flings its gay stripings like a rainbow-flash, 
While starry crowns and constellations fade 
Before the glories of that cavalcade, 
Whose trappings are the jewelry of heaven, 
Embroider'd thickly on the clouds of even. 

No ! no ! — he comes not thus in pomp and light, 
A new creation bursting out of night ! 
But he comes darkly forth ! in storm array'd — 
Like the red tempest marshall'd in her shade, 
When mountains rock; and thunders travelling round 
Hold counsel in the sky, — and midnight trumps 
resound. 



391 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

Is the most popular, and the most truly national, of the American poets. 
He has no competitor that can approach the simple and affecting beauty 
with which he delineates the striking features of an American landscape. 
His originality of thought is equalled by his felicity of expression ; and 
he would be truly fastidious that could find scope for censure in Bryant's 
noble sentiments and exquisite diction. 



THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 

When Spring to woods and wastes around 
Brought bloom and joy again, 

The murder d traveller's bones were found, 
Far down a narrow glen. 

The fragrant birch above him hung 

Her tassels in the sky ; 
And many a vernal blossom sprung 

And nodded careless by. 

The red-bird warbled as he wrought 

His hanging nest o'erhead, 
And fearless near the fatal spot 

Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away ; 

And gentle eyes, for him, 
With watching many an anxious day, 

Grew sorrowful and dim. 

They little knew, who loved him so, 

The fearful death he met, 
When shouting o'er the desert snow, 

Unarm' d and hard beset ; — 



392 BRYANT. 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole 
The northern dawn was red, 

The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole 
To banquet on the dead ; — 

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
They dress' d the hasty bier, 

And mark'd his grave with nameless stones, 
Unmoistend by a tear. 

But long they look'd, and fear'd, and wept, 

Within his distant home ; 
And drearnd, and started as they slept, 

For joy that he was come. 

So long they look'd — but never spied 

His welcome step again, 
Nor knew the fearful death he died 

Far down that narrow glen. 



SONG OF THE STARS. 

When the radiant morn of creation broke, 

And the world in the smile of God awoke, 

And the empty realms of darkness and death 

Were moved through their depths by His mighty breath ; 

And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame, 

From the void abyss, by myriads came, 

In the joy of youth, as they darted away, 

Through the widening wastes of space to play, 

Their silver voices in chorus rung, 

And this was the song the bright ones sung : 

Away, away, through the wide, wide sky, 
The fair blue fields that before us lie : 
Each sun with the worlds that round us roll, 
Each planet poised on her turning pole, 



BRYANT. 393 

With her isles of green, and her clouds of white, 
And her waters that lie like fluid light. 

For the Source of Glory uncovers his face, 
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space ; 
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides 
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides ; 
Lo, yonder the living splendours play ! 
Away ! on your joyous path away ! 

Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, 
In the infinite azure, star after star, 
How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass ! 
How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ! 
And the path of the gentle winds is seen, 
When the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. 

And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, 
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ! 
And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues, 
Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews ! 
And, 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, 
With her shadowy cone, the night goes round. 

Away, away ! — in our blossoming bowers, 
In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours, 
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, 
See, love is brooding, and life is born, 
And breathing myriads are breaking from night, 
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. 

Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres ! 
To weave the dance that measures the years. 
Glide on in the glory and gladness sent 
To the farthest wall of the firmament, 
The boundless, visible smile of Him, 
To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim. 



394 BRYANT. 

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 



The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and 

sere. 
Heapd in the hollows of the grove, the wither d leaves lie dead; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy 

day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately 

sprung and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves : the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain 
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perish' d long ago, 
And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn-beauty 

stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the 

plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, 

glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days 

will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees 

are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 



BRYANT. 395 

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late 

he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no 

more. 

And then I think of one, who in her youthful beauty died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : 
In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the 

, leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; 
Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 



Is a very pleasing writer. He has not written much ; but what he has 
written is nearly faultless. He possesses warm feeling, rich, yet playful, 
fancy, a copious flow of words, and very melodious versification. He is, 
however, valued, in America, more for his humorous than his serious 
poetry. 



MARCO BOZZARIS l. 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 

When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
Should tremble at his power ; 

1 Marco Bozzaris was a leader of the Greeks in the late revolutionary war ; he 
was killed in the assault of a Turkish camp. The circumstances of his fall 
are thus described by Mr. Gordon, in his admirable History of the Greek 
Revolution : — " In a council of war, held on the 20th, Mark Bozzaris pointed 
out the impossibility of keeping the foe in check by demonstrations ; or of 
spinning out the campaign, because they were in want of provisions and 
ammunition ; and he therefore insisted on the necessity of hazarding with- 
out delay a desperate attack : his generous proposition was approved, and 
the execution fixed for the following night. Their troops being divided into 
three columns, Bozzaris undertook to lead the centre ; George Kizzos, the 
two Tzavellas (uncle and nephew), the captains of Karpenisi, and the 
Khiliarch Yakis, headed one wing ; the other, formed of the soldiers of 
Agrafa and Souvalakos, was intrusted to the command of a Souliote, named 



396 HALLECK. 

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams, his song of triumph heard ; 
There wore his monarch's signet-ring, — 
Then press'd that monarch's throne, — a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden-bird. 

An hour pass'd on ; — the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek, 
" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek!" 
He woke to die 'midst flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band ; — 
" Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires ; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires, 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 
God, and your native land ! " 

They fought, like brave men, long and well, 
They piled that ground with Moslem slain, 

They conquer' d — but Bozzaris fell, 
Bleeding at every vein. 

Fotos ; the onset was to commence at five hours after sunset, and their 
watchword to be Stornari (or flint). Having waited a quarter of an hour 
beyond the appointed time, to allow the wings to come up, and perceiving 
no signs of them, Mark, with three hundred and fifty men, entered .Teladin 
Bey's camp, and, finding the Scodrians asleep, made a terrible slaughter of 
them. If all the Greeks had behaved like the Souliotes, the result would 
have been a complete victory. * * * The Souliotes, using their swords, after 
the first discharge of fire-arms, drove the Mirdites from all their tambourias 
except one within an enclosure, which Bozzaris assaulted in vain. Wounded 
by a shot in the loins, he concealed that accident, and continued to fight, 
until a ball struck him in the face ; he fell, and instantly expired. The 
action lasted for an hour and a half longer, but their leader's death be- 
coming known, and day beginning to dawn, the Souliotes retreated to their 
original position at Mikrokhori, carrying off with them their general's 
body." 



HALLECK. 397 

His few surviving comrades saw 

His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 



TWILIGHT. 



There is an evening twilight of the heart, 

When its wild passion-waves are lull'd to rest, 
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, 

As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 
Tis with a nameless feeling of regret, 

We gaze upon them as they melt away, 
And fondly would we bid them linger yet, 

But Hope is round us with her angel-lay, 
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour ; 
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their earthly power. 

In youth, the cheek was crimson'd with her glow ; 

Her smile was loveliest then ; her matin-song 
Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe 

Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. 
Life's little world of bliss was newly born ; 

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die. 
Flush'd with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, 

With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, 
And mock'd the passing clouds that dimm'd its blue, 
Like our own sorrows then — as fleeting and as few. 

And manhood felt her sway too, — on the eye, 
Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, 

Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh, 
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight ; 



398 HALLECK. 

And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, 
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air 

Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, 
The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 

Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, 

Her wreath the summer-flower, her robe of summer-green. 

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, 

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now ; 
That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, 

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow ; 
That smile shall brighten the dim evening-star, 

That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart 
Till the faint light of life is fled afar, 

And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart ; 
The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, 
A moonbeam in the midnight-cloud of death. 



CHARLES SPRAGUE 



Is an American poet, resembling rather the writer of prize poems for an 
English university, than the bard of a new republic. His taste is correct 
and refined, his thoughts vigorous and condensed, his diction pointed and 
forcible. 



THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS 1. 

Gay, guiltless pair, 
What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? 

Ye have no need of prayer, 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 



1 These lines were written on the occasion of two swallows flying into a church 
during divine service. 



SPRAGUE. 399 

Why perch ye here, 
Where mortals to their Maker bend ? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend ? 

Ye never knew 
The crimes for which we come to weep : 

Penance is not for you, 
Bless' d wanderers of the upper deep. 

To you 'tis given 
To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays ; 

Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each wing, 
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, 
And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands. 

Or, if ye stay, 
To note the consecrated hour, 
Teach me the airy way, 
And let me try your envied power. 

Above the crowd, 
On upward wings could I but fly, 

I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

'Twere heaven indeed, 
Through fields of trackless light to soar, 

On Nature's charms to feed, 
And Nature's own great God adore ! 



400 SPRAGUE. 

ART. 

When, from the sacred garden driven, 

Man fled before his Maker s wrath, 
An angel left her place in heaven, 

And cross'd the wanderers sunless path. 
Twas Art ! sweet Art ! New radiance broke, 

Where her light foot flew o'er the ground; 
And thus with seraph-voice she spoke, — 

" The curse a blessing shall be found." 

She led him through the trackless wild, 

Where noon-tide sunbeam never blazed : — 
The thistle shrunk — the harvest smiled, 

And Nature gladden' d as she gazed. 
Earth's thousand tribes of living things, 

At Art's command, to him are given ; 
The village grows, the city springs, 

And point their spires of faith to heaven. 

He rends the oak, — and bids it ride, 

To guard the shores its beauty graced ; 
He smites the rock, — upheaved in pride, 

See towers of strength, and domes of taste. 
Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal ; 

Fire bears his banner on the wave ; 
He bids the mortal poison heal, 

And leaps triumphant o'er the grave. 

He plucks the pearls that stud the deep, 

Admiring Beauty's lap to fill : 
He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep, 

And mocks his own Creator's skill. 
With thoughts that swell his glowing soul, 

He bids the ore illume the page, 
And, proudly scorning Time's control, 



SPRAGUE. 401 

In fields of air he writes his name, 

And treads the chambers of the sky ; 
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame 

That quivers round the Throne on high. 
In war renown'd, in peace sublime, 

He moves in greatness and in grace ; 
His power, subduing space and time, 

Links realm to realm, and race to race. 



JOHN G. C. BRAINARD, 



In the circumstances of his life and death, reminds us of Kirke White ; 
but, as a poet, he was infinitely White's superior. He was born in 
Connecticut, A. D. 1796, and was educated for the bar. Disliking the 
profession, he became the editor of a paper at New York, where he died 
of consumption, A. D. 1828. 

Originality, boldness, force, and pathos, appear in every one of Brai- 
nard's poems. His genius resembles that of Burns, both in its simplicity 
and its strength. 



THE DEEP. 

There's beauty in the deep : — 
The wave is bluer than the sky ; 
And though the light shine bright on high, 
More softly do the sea-gems glow, 
That sparkle in the depths below ; 
The rainbow's tints are only made 
When on the waters they are laid, 
And sun and moon most sweetly shine 
Upon the ocean's level brine. 

There's beauty in the deep. 

2 c 



402 BRAINARD. 

There's music in the deep : — 
It is not in the surfs rough roar, 
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore ; — 
They are hut earthly sounds, that tell 
How little of the sea-nymph's shell, 
That sends its loud, clear note abroad, 
Or winds its softness through the flood, 
Echoes through groves with coral gay, 
And dies, on spongy banks, away. 

There's music in the deep. 

There's quiet in the deep : — 
Above, let tides and tempests rave, 
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave ; 
Above, let care and fear contend 
With sin and sorrow to the end : 
Here, far beneath the tainted foam, 
That frets above our peaceful home, 
We dream in joy, and wake in love, 
Nor know the rage that yells above. 

There's quiet in the deep. 



THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. 

The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, 

While I look upward to thee. It would seem 

As if God pour'd thee from his " hollow hand," 

And hung his bow upon thine awful front ; 

And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him 

Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, 

" The sound of many waters ;" and had bade 

Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 

And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks. 



BRAINARD. 403 

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, 
That hear the question of that voice sublime ? 
Oh ! what are all the notes that ever rung 
From wars vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ! 
Yea, what is all the riot man can make 
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar ! 
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him, 
Who drown' d a world, and heap'd the waters far 
Above its loftiest mountains ? — a light wave, 
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. 



DEPARTURE OF THE PIONEERl. 

Far away from the hill-side, the lake, and the hamlet, 

The rock, and the brook, and yon meadow so gay ; 
From the footpath that winds by the side of the streamlet ; 

From his hut, and the grave of his friend far away ; 

He has gone where the footsteps of man never ventured, 

Where the glooms of the wild-tangled forest are centred, 

Where no beam of the sun or the sweet moon has enter'd, 

No blood-hound has roused up the deer with his bay. 

He has left the green valley for paths where the bison 
Roams through the prairies, or leaps o'er the flood ; 

Where the snake in the swamp sucks the deadliest poison, 
And the cat of the mountains keeps watch for its food. 

But the leaf shall be greener, the sky shall be purer, 

The eyes shall be clearer, the rifle be surer, 

And stronger the arm of the fearless endurer, 

That trusts nought but Heaven in his way through the 
wood. 



1 Tfie Pioneer, a name giveu by the Americans to the first settler in a new 
country. 

2c 2 



404 BRAINARD. 

Light be the heart of the poor, lonely wanderer, 

Firm be his step through each wearisome mile, 
Far from the cruel man, far from the plunderer, 
Far from the track of the mean and the vile ! 
And when death, with the last of its terrors, assails him, 
And all but the last throb of memory fails him, 
He'll think of the friend, far away, that bewails him, 
And light up the cold touch of death with a smile. 

And there shall the dew shed its sweetness and lustre, 

There for his pall shall the oak-leaves be spread ; 
The sweet-brier shall bloom, and the wild-grapes shall 
cluster, 
And o'er him the leaves of the ivy be shed. 
There shall they mix with the fern and the heather, 
There shall the young eagle shed its first feather, 
The wolves with his wild-dogs shall lie there together, 
And moan o'er the spot where the hunter is laid. 



RUFUS DAWES. 

This delightful poet has, as yet, only written short pieces in various 
periodicals. 



THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. 

The Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light, 
And wheels her course in a joyous flight ; 
I know her track through the balmy air, 
By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there ; 
She leaves the tops of the mountains green, 
And gems the valley with crystal sheen. 



DAWES. 405 

At morn, I know where she rested at night, 
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight ; 
Then she mounts again, and around her flings 
A shower of light from her purple wings, 
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high, 
That silently fills it with ecstacy ! 

At noon she hies to a cool retreat, 
Where bowering elms over waters meet ; 
She dimples the wave, where the green leaves dip, 
That smiles, as it curls, like a maidens lip, 
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain, 
From her lover, the hope that she loves again. 

At eve, she hangs o'er the western sky 
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy ; 
And round the skirts of each sweeping fold, 
She paints a border of crimson and gold, 
Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay, 
When their god in his glory has pass'd away. 

She hovers around us at twilight hour, 
When her presence is felt with the deepest power ; 
She mellows the landscape, and crowds the stream 
With shadows that flit like a fairy-dream : 
Still wheeling her flight through the gladsome air, 
The Spirit of Beauty is every where ! 



406 



H. W. LONGFELLOW'S 



Lyrics unite the spirit of Pierpont's odes with the tenderness of Bryant. 
Poetry is said to be only the amusement of his leisure hours. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINKl. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell 
The shadow 1 d light of evening fell : 
And when the maple's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down 
The glory that the wood receives, 
At sunset in its golden leaves. 

Far upward, in the mellow light, 
Rose the blue hills — one cloud of white ; 
Around, a far uplifted cone 
In the warm blush of evening shone — 
An image of the silver lakes 
By which the Indian soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard, 
Where the soft breath of evening stirr'd 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart and strong in hand 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sung, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But as the summer-fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

1 The Minnisinks are a tribe of the North American Indians. 



LONGFELLOW. 407 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Cover d the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds, the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-hair d virgin train 
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Strippd of his proud and martial dress, 
Uncurb'd, unrein d, and riderless, 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread, 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Ask'd for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle-steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart : one piercing neigh 
Arose — and on the dead mans plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again ! 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS, AT THE CONSE- 
CRATION OF PULASKI'S 2 BANNER. 



When the dying flame of day 
Through the chancel shot its ray, 
Far the glimmering tapers shed 
Faint light on the cowled head, 

2 Pulaski was a noble Pole, who served as a volunteer in the American War. 



408 LONGFELLOW. 

And the censer burning swung, 

Where before the altar hung 

That proud banner, which with prayer 

Had been consecrated there. 
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, 
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

Take thy banner ! — may it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave, 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale, — 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, — 
When the spear in conflict shakes, 
And the strong lance shivering breaks ! 

Take thy banner ! — and beneath 
The war-cloud's encircling wreath, 
Guard it — till our homes are free — 
Guard it — God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power, 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His right-hand will shield thee then. 

Take thy banner ! — But when night 

Closes round the ghastly fight, 

If the vanquish' d warrior bow, 

Spare him ! By our holy vow, 

By our prayers and many tears, 

By the mercy that endears, 

Spare him — he our love hath shared ! 

Spare him — as thou wouldst be spared ! 

Take thy banner ! — and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 



LONGFELLOW. 409 






Then this crimson flag shall be, 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee ! 
And the warrior took that banner proud, 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud. 





NATHANIEL P. WILLIS 



M 



Is a young poet of great promise ; his verses display great refinement of 
feeling and purity of sentiment. He possesses great command of 
language, but is sometimes careless about the melody of his versification. 



THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. 

Wo ! for my vine-clad home X 
That it should ever be so dark to me, 
With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree ! 

That I should ever come, 
Fearing the lonely echo of a tread, 
Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead ! 

Lead on ! my orphan boy ! 
Thy home is not so desolate to thee, 
And the low shiver in the linden-tree 

May bring to thee a joy ; 
But, oh ! how dark is the bright home before thee, 
To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee ! 

Lead on ! for thou art now 
My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, 
And the strong heart I leand upon is broken ; 

And I have seen his brow, 
The forehead of my upright one and just, 
Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust. . ^ 

He will not meet thee there 
Who bless'd thee at the eventide, my son ! 
And when the shadows of the night steal on, 

He will not call to prayer. 



410 WILLIS. 

The lips that melted, giving thee to God, 
Are in the icy keeping of the sod ! 

Ay, my own boy ! thy sire * 
Is with the sleepers of the valley cast, 
And the proud glory of my life hath past, 

With his high glance of fire. 
Wo ! that the linden and the vine should bloom, 
And a just man be gather d to the tomb ! 

Why, bear them proudly, boy ! 
It is the sword he girded to his thigh, 
It is the helm he wore in victory ! 

And shall we have no joy ? 
For thy green vales, O Switzerland, he died ! 
I will forget my sorrow — in my pride ! 



THE BOY. 






There's something in a noble boy, 

A brave, free-hearted, careless one, 
With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy ; 

His dread of books and love of fun, 
And in his clear and ready smile, 
Unshaded by a thought of guile, 

And unrepress'd by sadness, — 
Which brings me to my childhood back, 
As if I trod its very track, 

And felt its very gladness. 

And yet it is not in his play, 

When every trace of thought is lost, 
And not when you would call him gay, 

That his bright presence thrills me most. 

His shout may ring upon the hill, 
His voice be echo'd in the hall, 

His merry laugh like music trill, 
And I in sadness hear it all, — 



WILLIS. 41 

For, like the wrinkles on my brow, 

I scarcely notice such things now, — 
But when, amid the earnest game, 

He stops, as if he music heard, 
And, heedless of his shouted name 

As of the carol of a bird, 
Stands gazing on the empty air, 
As if some dream were passing there ; — 

Tis then that on his face I look, 
His beautiful, but thoughtful face, 

And, like a long-forgotten book, 
Its sweet familiar meanings trace, 

Remembering a thousand things 

Which pass'd me on those golden wings, 
Which time has fetter d now,— 

Things that came o'er me with a thrill, 

And left me silent, sad, and still, 
And threw upon my brow 

A holier and a gentler cast, 

That was too innocent to last. 

Tis strange how thoughts upon a child 

Will, like a presence, sometimes press, 
And when his pulse is beating wdd, 

And life itself is in excess, — 
When foot and hand, and ear and eye, 
Are all with ardour straining high, — 

How in his heart will spring 
A feeling, whose mysterious thrall 
Is stronger, sweeter far than all ; 

And on its silent wing, 
How, with the clouds, he'll float away, 

As wandering and as lost as they ! 



412 



HENRY J. FINN. 



We have seen nothing of Finn's but the following stanzas ; they display 
great poetic power. 



THE FUNERAL AT SEA. 

Deep mists hung over the mariners grave, 

When the holy funeral rite was read ; 
And every breath on the dark-blue wave, 

Seem'd hush'd, to hallow the friendless dead. 

And heavily heaved on the gloomy sea, 
The ship that shelter' d that homeless one, 

As though his funeral-hour should be, 

When the waves were still, and the winds were gone. 

And there he lay, in his coarse, cold shroud, — 
And strangers were round the coffinless ; 

Not a kinsman was seen among that crowd, — 
Not an eye to weep, nor a lip to bless. 

No sound from the church's passing bell 

Was echo'd along the pathless deep ; 
The hearts that were far away, to tell 

Where the mariner lies in his lasting sleep. 

Not a whisper then linger d upon the air, — 

O'er his body, one moment, his messmates bent ; 

But the plunging sound of the dead was there, 
And the ocean is now his monument ! 

But many a sigh, and many a tear, 

Shall be breathed, and shed, in the hours to come,— 
When the widow and fatherless shall hear 

How he died, far, far from his happy home ! 



413 



GRENVILLE MELLEN 



Is a writer of fertile imagination, and is peculiarly happy in the expres- 
sion of tender and delicate sentiment. He is now greatly esteemed as a 
lawyer, and is regarded as among the most eminent of the American 
barristers. 



THE AIR VOYAGE.— A VISION. 

Ye have heard of spirits that sail the air, 
Like birds that float o'er the mountains bare, 
Upborne with pinions of beauty on, 
When the farewell light of day is gone, 
And they gladly soar to the blue away, 
As to catch the star's young travelling ray : 

Till the arch of night, 

Is tremblingly bright, 
As if meteors shot on their upward flight. 

Ye have heard of spirits that sail away, 
To realms that glisten with endless day, — 
Where the clouds scarce lift their giant-forms, 
In their far dim march to the land of storms ; 
Where the ocean of ether heaves around, 
And silence and dew alone are found ! 

Where life is still, 

By a boundless will, 
As a sabbath around some echoless hill ! 

Methought I was borne through the measureless fields, 

Where the silver moon and the comet wheels. 

With a glorious thrilling of joy I went, 

And a tide of life through my heart was sent, 

As though a new fountain had burst control, 

And bade its streams o'er my pulses roll ; 

And a shallop frail, 

With a shadowy sail, 
Hurried me on with the singing gale. 



414 MELLEN. 

It went through my brain, this deep delight, 
With a kindling sense of sound and sight ; 
And it seem'd, as I rose, that the far-blue air 
Caught a hue of glory more richly rare, 
Than was ever reveal' d to earthly eyes, — 
The cold, cold lustre of uppermost skies ! 

And still my bark went 

Through the firmament, 
As a thing to the walls of the universe sent. 

When the sun roll'd up from the burning sea, 
Like a car of flame from immensity, 
I felt his beams quiver along my frame, 
When first o'er the clouds and stars they came ; 
And the light-dropping orbs I had slumber d among, 
Their dim dewy eyes o'er creation hung, 

As each beautiful ray 

Sunk sadly away, 
To the inner home of the high-blue day ! 

Then I sail'd far off to the thundering clouds, 
That loom'd on the air like spirits in shrouds, 
My vessel, sunk on their fleecy pillow, 
Seem'd a shadowy bark on a dreamy billow ; 
And I floated through seas of vision'd things, 
Where the waking breezes point their wings, 

While far below, 

'Mid the lightning's glow, 
I heard the dull sounds of the tempest go. 

Then storm-clouds cross'd my glowing track, 

And launch' d me on through the hurrying rack, 

Till a new creation seem'd to rise, 

In beauty all over the opening skies ; 

And the spirits that pass'd on the wings of night, 

As they took their farewell feathery flight, 

Pour'd melody out, 

Like the far-off shout, 
Of music that dies on its airy route ! 



415 



JAMES G. WHITTIER 



Is a barrister of high reputation, who makes poetry the amusement of 
his leisure hours. 



[From THE MINSTREL GIRL.] 

She lean'd against her favourite tree, 

The golden sunlight melting through 
The twined branches, as the free 

And easy-pinion'd breezes flew 
Around the bloom and greenness there, 

Awaking all to life and motion, 
Like unseen spirits sent to bear 

Earth's perfume to the barren ocean. 
That ocean lay before her then 

Like a broad lustre, to send back 
The scatter' d beams of day again, 

To burn along its sunset track ! 
And broad and beautiful it shone ; 

As quicken' d by some spiritual breath, 
Its very waves seem'd dancing on 

To music whisper' d underneath. 

And there she lean'd, — that minstrel girl ! 

The breeze's kiss was soft and meek, 
Where coral melted into pearl, 

On parted lip and glowing cheek ; 
Her dark and lifted eye had caught 

Its lustre from the spirit's gem ; 
And round her brow the light of thought 

Was like an angel's diadem ; 
For genius, as a living coal, 

Had touch' d her lip and heart with flame, 
And on the altar of her soul 

The fire of inspiration came. 



416 WHITTIER. 

And early she had learn 1 d to love 

Each holy charm to Nature given, — 
The changing earth, the skies above, 

Were prompters to her dreams of heaven ! 
She loved the earth,— the streams that wind, 

Like music, from its hills of green, — 
The stirring boughs above them twined, — 

The shifting light and shade between ; — 
The fall of waves — the fountam-gush — 

The sigh of winds — the music heard 
At even-tide from air and bush — 

The minstrelsy of leaf and bird. 
But chief she loved the sunset-sky — ■ 

Its golden clouds, like curtains drawn 
To form the gorgeous canopy j 

Of monarchs to their slumbers gone ! 

The sun went down, — and broad and red, 

One moment, on the burning wave, 
Rested his front of fire, to shed 

A glory round his ocean-grave : 
And sunset — far and gorgeous hung 

A banner from the wall of heaven — 
A wave of living glory, flung 

Along the shadowy verge of even. 



WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY 

Writes principally in periodicals. His poems display more taste than 
talent ; but they are far above mediocrity. 



THE AUTUMN EVENING. 

Behold the western evening-light ! 

It melts in deepening gloom ; 
So calmly Christians sink away, 

Descending to the tomb. . 



PEABODY, 41 

The winds breathe low ; the withering leaf 

Scarce whispers from the tree ; 
So gently flows the parting breath, 

When good men cease to be. 

How beautiful on all the hills 

The crimson light is shed ! 
'Tis like the peace* the Christian gives 

To mourners round his bed. 

How mildly on the wandering cloud 

The sunset beam is cast ! 
'Tis like the memory left behind, 

When loved ones breathe their last. 

And now, above the dews of night, 

The yellow star appears ; 
So faith springs in the heart of those 

Whose eyes are bathed in tears. 

But soon the morning s happier light 

Its glory shall restore, 
And eyelids that are seal'd in death, 

Shall wake, to close no more. 



F. S. ECKHARD 

Is known to us only as the author of the following beautiful poem. 



THE RUINED CITY. 

The days of old, though time has reft 
The dazzling splendour which they cast ; 

Yet many a remnant still is left 
To shadow forth the past. 

2d 



413 ECKHARD. 

The warlike deed, the classic page, 
The lyric torrent, strong and free, 

Are lingering o'er the gloom of age, 
Like moonlight on the sea. 

A thousand years have roll'd along, 

And blasted empires in their pride ; 
And witness'd scenes of crime and wrong, 

Till men by nations died. 
A thousand summer-suns have shone, 

Till earth grew bright beneath their sway, 
Since thou, untenanted, and lone, 

Wert render'd to decay. 

The moss-tuft, and the ivy-wreath, 

For ages clad thy fallen mould, 
And gladden' d in the spring's soft breath ; 

But they grew wan and old. 
Now, desolation hath denied 

That even these shall veil thy gloom : 
And Nature's mantling beauty died 

In token of thy doom. 

Alas, for the far years, when clad 

With the brigh vesture of thy prime, 
The proud towers made each wanderer glad, 

Who hail'd thy sunny clime. 
Alas, for the fond hope, and dream, 

And all that won thy children's trust, 
God cursed — and none may now redeem, 

Pale city of the dust ! 

How the dim visions throng the soul, 
When twilight broods upon thy waste ; 

The clouds of woe from o'er thee roll, 
Thy glory seems replaced. 



ECKHARD. 419 

The stir of life is brightening round, 

Thy structures swell upon the eye, 
And mirth and revelry resound 

In triumph to the sky. 

But a stern moral may be read, 

By those who view thy lonely gloom : 
Oblivion's pall alike is spread 

O'er slave, and lordly tomb. 
The sad, the gay, the old, and young, 

The warrior's strength, and beauty's glow, 
Resolved to that from which they sprung, 

Compose the dust below. 



THE END. 



London : 
JOHN W. PARKER, 

West Strand. 






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